


Setting The Stuns'ls

by glasscannon, Primarybufferpanel (ArwenLune)



Series: All Hands [2]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Season/Series 02, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Female Friendship, Gen, Gratuitous Sailing Details, Mentions of Past Torture, Miranda Barlow Appreciation, No we mean SLOW burn, Period-Typical Sexism, Pirates, Slow Burn, Slower than that, even s l o w e r, giving Abigail roots in historical early feminism, mentions of past captivity, picking and choosing from canon, tallship sailing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-02
Updated: 2017-08-26
Packaged: 2018-11-07 22:30:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 94,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11068431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glasscannon/pseuds/glasscannon, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArwenLune/pseuds/Primarybufferpanel
Summary: When word reaches Nassau that Captain Derrick of the Nemo has kidnapped Abigail Ashe, daughter of the Lord Governor of the Carolinas, and intends to sell her to the pirate crew offering the highest bid, Captain Flint and his crew take matters into their own hands and mount a rescue.Though she is no longer a prisoner, Abigail's journey is far from over.





	1. I

_August 1715_

"Billy!"

Billy looked down the hatch. The men were still sweeping the ship _Nemo_ , looking for their prize. He'd never held up another pirate ship before, and most of the men were on deck, keeping the other, smaller crew under careful shot.

The _Nemo_ wasn't much to look at, a smallish brigantine and not in the best of repair. The smell rising up from the hatch spoke of neglect below decks as well as in the rigging. It had taken just one shot from their own ship to convince the captain to capitulate to Flint.

"...then we'll be on our way," Flint was explaining to the Captain Derrick of the _Nemo_ , sounding like this was a minor inconvenience, not a gross break in pirate code.

Billy climbed down to find Joshua waiting for him, gesturing for him to come along.

"Found her," he said simply, leading them down another ladder and toward where Billy figured was the powder magazine. Down there was Joji, waiting calmly by the open doorway to a storage space adjacent to the powder, guarding it. Billy moved so the line of sight allowed him to look into the small space.

There was the woman they were here for, small and underfed and wild-looking, like somebody pushed well beyond the limits of endurance. She was holding a lamp in her bound hands, in a space right next to the powder magazine, where no lamps ought to have been at all. One spark... there'd barely be lamps allowed in the gangway where the men were standing. She was watching them with a sort of grim determination.

"How the hell does she have a lantern in there?" Billy asked under his breath. Surely the _Nemo_ crew hadn't given one to her?

"Grabbed it from me," Joji admitted. "I opened the door and— she was fast. I wasn't going to try to take it back from her."

If it had been anything else, or anywhere else, that would have been easy enough. But in this part of the ship wrestling for a live flame, no matter how easily you could overpower the other person, no matter how well contained the flame, would almost certainly end with the lantern smashed and the magazine set alight.

"No, good call," Billy said. She had risked herself for that lantern for a reason, understanding the leverage it gave her. She looked like she was willing to use it, too — willing to blow them all to kingdom come, and both ships with it.

"Miss Ashe, isn't it?" he addressed her, pitching his voice low and calm. "We've come to rescue you."

Her eyes fastened on his and she scoffed, and for a moment he was so surprised he faltered on his words. She was in a bad situation here, kidnapped on the _Nemo_ — it had been almost a month since news of her disappearance had reached Nassau. She hadn't exactly been comfortable by the looks of it, he could see the grime on her skin and dress even in the gloom. He'd expected her to be eager to get out of it even if she wasn't sure who her rescuers were.

"By Captain Flint," she said after a long moment, her voice soft and hoarse. "I'm being _rescued_ by Captain _Flint_."  

"I assure you, Miss," Billy began, but wasn't sure what to say in the face of her incredulous tone. Had the _Nemo_ crew told her it was Flint coming for them? Perhaps told her to expect far worse from Flint and his crew than from themselves? She looked shaken and scared and utterly, deadly serious about the lantern she was holding in trembling hands.

"Go get the Captain," Billy said quietly to Joshua. If she was scared of Flint, Flint was going to need to convince her of his good intentions himself. They waited, she with her back against the bulkhead, watching them warily, and he and Joji just outside the door of the little space.

She looked tense, braced, her bare toes curled against the grimy deck planks as if she was expecting them to rush her any moment.

Billy wondered how the hell they could resolve this, because she had to know that any leverage she had ended as soon as she gave up the lamp. Whatever brought her to do it need not be true, only convincing enough in the moment. Wouldn't be anything she could do if the story changed afterward.

He looked to where Flint came down the ladder, Joshua in tow. At least the Captain didn't look bloody, that might help the situation.

"What's going on?" Flint asked Billy, who nodded to the young woman inside. She gasped softly when the Captain came into view, her shoulders digging hard against the bulkhead. Flint took in the lantern, the threat of it, and how well aware of it she looked.

"Miss Ashe is skeptical about this being a rescue."

"Well then, perhaps I can convince her."

Flint stayed just outside the doorway, leaning sideways against the bulkhead, not crowding the woman in the small space. He rubbed his face with both hands, letting out a long breath. It was a side to the Captain the men weren't used to seeing, and Billy quietly sent Joshua and Joji on their way to help with the sweep of the rest of the ship.

"Miss Ashe, I'm Captain James Flint."

She gave a tiny nod in acknowledgement.

"Did they tell you they would ransom you?"

Another slight nod.

"I'm guessing Captain Derrick became daunted by the prospect of the actual exchange that might entail, because as far as I'm aware he did not send anything to your father. He put out the word to pirate crews that he would sell you so they could ransom you."

Miss Ashe made a small, startled sound, and shook her head slightly, as if she weren't willing to believe it. Then she rallied.

"And you have c-come to make that deal?"

She had guts, Billy thought. As obviously scared as she was, she wasn't just folding to Flint. He'd seen plenty of hardened men fare worse.

"I'm not paying him for you, and I will not be asking your father to pay for you, either."

Her eyebrows rose in open incredulity, and Billy wanted to laugh.

Flint said nothing.

"So you, a famous pirate captain known for both his ruthlessness and his profitable hauls," she finally said, "are going through the effort and expense of retrieving me... why?"

Flint chuckled wearily, as if that was a question he'd been asking himself. Perhaps he had, he couldn't possibly be as certain of this course of action as he presented to the crew.

"Because I have a favour to ask from your father, and I am hoping to make an ally out of him."

Billy hadn't often heard this tone of voice from the Captain, calm and almost gentle, the usual force of certainty that underlaid his speaking gone for the moment.

"Returning his daughter, without conditions and in good a health as we can ensure, will help with that goal," he added.

There, that was it, Billy thought. If she believed them on the ally part, she would believe that they would do their best to make her comfortable. That she wasn't going from a bad situation into a worse one. The stories she'd tell her father about her treatment would be crucial to their cause.

"Will you come with us?" Flint asked wearily. "I would very much like to get out of the stench of this ship."

She stared at the Captain for a moment longer, eyes big and luminous in the gloom, then to Billy. He thought she looked impossibly weary, that she wanted to believe them but perhaps just couldn't bring herself to.  

Then her knees buckled, and both men twitched as the lantern shook, but she let her back slide down the bulkhead in a controlled descent until she was sitting on the filthy deck, her knees drawn up to her chest under her skirts, the lantern coming to stand on the deck with a soft clunk.

"May I—?" the Captain gestured at the lantern, sounding more cautious and polite than Billy had ever heard him, and when she gave a slight, resigned nod, Flint stepped into the little storage space that had been her cell and crouched down in front of her. He took the lantern with care and held it back toward Billy without looking, and Billy took it and doused it immediately.

"Your hands?" the Captain said, and took hold of the ropes between her wrists. She gave a soft sob when he drew his belt knife, body frozen in sudden fear, and then her hands fell uselessly by her sides as Flint cut them loose.

The Captain backed off a pace before he rose to his feet.

"I need to get on deck to make sure nobody got any ideas while I was down here," he said to Miss Ashe, still in that gentle tone. "Billy here will help you get aboard our ship and see you set up with food and drink and washing water. All right?"

She was looking up at them with huge eyes, but only nodded mutely, all the energy seemingly having gone out of her. Once the Captain was gone Billy crouched down with her, very aware of his size and of how uncomfortably vulnerable it was to have somebody loom over you. He'd had plenty of experience with that in his own captivity.

"Can you stand? Or I could carry you."

She huffed a quiet breath and lifted her arm, and he interpreted that as a request to help her up. He put his hand under her upper arm and supported her as she got to her feet, steadied her while she reeled for a long moment. She felt light and shaky against him, and he swallowed a sudden wave of anger. That she'd been kidnapped in the first place was bad enough, but they could at least have taken proper care of her. Bare feet on a deck this rough and poorly maintained — this entire ship felt filthy in a way he'd never allowed the _Walrus_ to become, or the new Spanish ship, the _Revenge_. He wanted to let the doctor know to keep an extra close eye on anybody who had open wounds or scrapes.

He guided her out of the cramped little space and up toward the deck, relieved when she got up the ladders well enough. On deck Flint’s crew was still guarding the _Nemo_ 's crew, and everybody looked up as Billy brought Miss Ashe out onto deck. She used her free hand to shade her eyes, squinting against the midday sunlight.

"Just you wait to see if you're better off!" the _Nemo_ 's captain shouted at her. “They're cruel animals!” She shrank in on herself a little, and looked away when Flint punched the man. Then she glanced at Billy to indicate that she was ready to leave this ship behind.

She balked at the plank between the ships. It was a sizeable gap, three steps across for Billy, four or five for her. The sea was gentle, but the ships still moved relative to each other, making the plank even more daunting. It was easier to walk across fast, but he could tell that might be beyond her right now.

Billy whistled to one of the men standing watch on deck of their own ship, and Bosedeh, a tall former slave, nodded when he seized up the situation. He took up position on the other side of the plank and reached out a long arm, bridging the gap by almost a third. Billy took her right hand and she turned sideways. She looked from him to Bosedeh awaiting her on the other side, and took a shaky breath.

She gripped his hand hard as she edged sideways onto the plank, less steady on her feet than he'd like, and Billy grimaced when a wave moved the ships. Miss Ashe wobbled dangerously just when she was in the middle of the plank. Bosedeh saw it too, because he took a swift, careful step out onto the plank and snatched her by the left elbow, steadying her as he tugged her across. Billy followed just in time to hear her soft, startled yelp when the other man easily lifted her off the plank and onto the deck. She stood frozen for a long moment after he removed his hands from her sides, uncertain, but Bosedeh just quirked her a grin and went back to his guard duty.

Billy brought her to the big aft salon the Captain occupied, unsure where Flint would want to install her and figuring this would do for the moment. They could partition a section with sail cloth to give her privacy.

"Have a seat," he said, pulling out a heavy chair for her. She sank down into it gratefully.

"There's water in the jug, and I'll be back with some food for you." And cleaner clothes. The Captain hadn't been exaggerating about the stench of the _Nemo_.

They hadn't been away from land more than a few days, so it wasn't hard to find her some stale but weevil free bread, a bowl of cold stew and an orange fruit. He found some old clothes for her that were tolerably clean, at least to his eyes and nose, and sent somebody to the bosun's store for some rope and the old lateen sail that had been blown to bits.

She hadn't moved from the chair, or even in the chair, as far as he could tell. Just sat there numbly, barely reacting when he returned and put the food in front of her.

"We're about to cut away from the _Nemo_ , so I'm going to help get us underway, but I'll come and rig up a curtain for you so you can wash and change," he announced. "We can drag the dress behind the ship overnight to get it—" he hesitated a moment, wondering if she'd find his assessment of the state of the dress insulting. "Well, cleaner," he finished. It was definitely going to need it.

She brought her hand to her face, noticed how dirty it was and dropped it back down, but he thought he saw her lips curl up, that the little huff of breath he heard was perhaps amusement. "Thank you," she said softly.

Some long-forgotten lesson in manners from his parents prompted him to smile and say, "You're very welcome."

 

He returned to the salon some time later, after they were on course and sailing on a comfortable broad reach. They'd left the _Nemo_ with cut sheets and braces, needing at least a day of line repair before they'd be able to limp anywhere. And if they had any sense, they’d head in the other direction, toward Tortuga, not Nassau, not anywhere within Flint’s reach.

He found Miss Ashe still, or again, in the chair. She'd cleaned her hands and face and eaten the food he'd brought her. Her face was the kind of pale you got on people who hadn't been outside in weeks, but she looked a little more alive now, a little less defeated. Actually looked at him when he opened the door, direct and maybe almost curious, until she seemed to remember herself and cast her eyes down.

Flint had agreed that a partitioned corner of the aft salon was the best solution, so Billy got to work on rigging up a line to shield one of the hanging cots from view, plus enough deck space to move around in. When he was done he brought her a bucket and a full jug of water and some clean rags. She seemed to be deep in thought, but gave him a small smile in acknowledgement.

"Miss, you can bar this door from the inside," he got her attention as he was about to leave again, indicating the salon door. "Though the Captain also uses this space, so once you're, uh, decent again," they both glanced at the small stack of spare clothes he'd found for her, and he wondered how attached she was to the standards she would have been taught at her fancy school in London. How practical her recent ordeal had made her. Perhaps she wondered the same thing. "Then uh, it'd probably be good if you left the bar off."

"Yes. Thank you," she said quietly, and then, halting him in his tracks, "Mister…?"

"Just Billy," he said.

She hesitated a moment. "Am I to stay in here?" she asked finally, and he felt bad for making her ask.

"Oh, no. I don't recommend that you go below decks…" There were new men on the crew since he'd gone overboard, men he didn't have enough of a measure of yet to guarantee her safety.

She made a face, and of course, she'd spent a month below decks, that was probably the last thing she wanted.

"...but you're welcome to come up to the quarterdeck. Mr. De Groot has this watch." The Sailing Master had his watch under tight control and wouldn't tolerate anybody bothering her, though of course, he realised belatedly, that name didn't mean anything to her. "And I take over from him at eight-bells."

Her expression cleared, and she nodded. "I may come up, then. I have missed seeing the sky."

"I can well imagine," he smiled, and there was a moment that seemed to stretch slightly too long before he shook himself and took his leave, hearing her bar the door shut behind him.

 

* * *

  

Abigail stood for a long moment with her eyes closed and her hands on the bar holding the door shut, just breathing in the clean open air of the salon. A door locked from the inside was an unexpected blessing after so long aboard the _Nemo_ , at the mercy of a key in the hands of others. She had lost track of the days, but it had to be near a month since they’d taken her, maybe more. The sudden shift in her conditions made her head spin and her heart thud against her ribs, still disbelieving the reality of her change in circumstance, even after watching the _Nemo_ fade into the distance through the salon’s large aft windows. Beneath her palms the wood was solid and warm and as much under her command as that lantern had been in the belly of the _Nemo_. Freedom in the form of a lock was a strange, giddy feeling, too unsettled to be called joy. She stood and breathed.

Turning back to the desk that dominated the center of the salon, Abigail’s eyes caught on the stack of clothing Billy had left for her. She supposed it had been a vain hope that they would have an extra dress on hand, but anything was better than the clothes she had been wearing since being kidnapped. The borrowed clothing was soft and worn under her fingertips, but worlds cleaner than every stitch she was wearing, and suddenly Abigail could not wait to be rid of the filth of the _Nemo_.

The curtain Billy had rigged up partitioned off the aft-most corner of the starboard wall of the cabin, containing a hanging cot and several windows with windowseats, and considerably larger than any of the cubbyholes she’d been forced into on the _Nemo_. She carried over the jug and the bucket, putting them down behind a little ledge so they would not slide and spill, then returned for the rags and the pile of clothes, pulling the sailcloth curtain closed behind her just in case, and then set to work. The practical front-opening travel dress and half-boned stays she had argued for so strenuously before leaving London had at least allowed her not to be tortured by her own clothing while held captive, and she had long since stopped pulling the lacings of her stays closed tight. With a few buttons worked, the dress was in a pile at her feet, and she kicked it under the cot for the time being, unable to look at it.

Her dress had taken the worst of the grime of the _Nemo_ , but she was determined to remove every last bit of clothing, and hopefully with it the stench of that ship. Abigail untied her petticoats and let those fall to the deck in a crumpled, dirty mass as well, then set to unlacing the already loose bindings of her stays. When she was down to nothing but her shift, she poured some water into the bucket and perched on the edge of one of the windowseats. Some of the windows were open, letting in the clean salt-scented breeze, and Abigail took up the rags and proceeded to wash herself head to toe, scrubbing at her skin and hair until no trace of the _Nemo_ remained.

Inspecting the clothing Billy had brought for her, she discovered a pair of wide-legged canvas trousers and a soft cotton shirt with sleeves that billowed at the shoulders and gathered back in at the wrists, along with a few other small items he must have thought she would find useful. The kindness she had been shown by Captain Flint’s crew thus far, by Billy and the others who had helped her leave the _Nemo_ , was utterly dizzying after so long held captive.

She'd been too frightened, too numb, to appreciate it at the time, but even the two pirates who'd found her on the _Nemo_ had been... Considerate, was perhaps the word she might apply if it didn't feel so absurd to apply it to pirates. But they'd been calm, made no effort to intimidate her, and she thought that it hadn't been only the threat of the lantern that had made them behave that way. It was entirely unlike what the _Nemo_ men would have done, most of them had seemed to be delighted by her fear.

The only man of this crew who had touched her without warning was the one who'd helped her aboard. She'd flinched badly at the sudden feeling of his large hands wrapped almost all the way around her waist, at how easily and thoughtlessly he'd lifted her, but he'd let go of her as soon as she stood steady, seemed to have meant nothing by it. In her world — before she'd set sail, at any rate, she wasn't entirely sure what her world was anymore — no man would have dreamt of touching a lady so freely. Perhaps it had been his pirate version of being polite, of saving her the effort of clambering down from the plank, like a gentleman might help a lady down from a carriage?

Even now, she couldn’t really believe it, couldn’t quite bring herself to trust in Flint’s word that he had no intention of ransoming her to her father. But Billy at least seemed genuine in his intent, gentler than she would have imagined a pirate could be, almost like someone she could have known in London, and more compassionate and courteous than many she had known there.

With the waist cinched tightly with the length of rope Billy had provided, the hem of the pants reached nearly to her anklebone, almost as wide around her legs as skirts and petticoats. The shirt was similarly oversized on her, the long tails tucked into the waist of the pants and the sleeves rolled to her elbow, the folds hanging large off her arms. The neck was also too wide, but a bit of cloth almost like a neckerchief filled in the neckline well enough for Abigail to feel covered, if strangely and almost wonderfully unbound. Her feet were still bare, but they were clean now, and though her right heel was a little painful, she found herself not caring for her lack of shoes in the slightest.

Up on deck she heard the striking of bells again, and she kept count — two, four, six, eight chimes. There was a sudden increase in booted footsteps overhead, and she thought that had to be the watch change that Billy had mentioned. Abigail turned back to the bucket and her pile of discarded clothing. The dress she would happily throw over the side to be cleaned, and with a little bit of fiddling she was able to secure the petticoats to the inside of the dress, hopefully well enough to stay connected while being dragged by the ship. Her shift and stays she washed by hand with the last of the clean water, then hung them to dry on the edges of the open windows.

Abigail slid the partition curtain open to find the salon’s door still mercifully barred from the inside, though she realised part of her had doubted it would be. She was thrilled all over again at the security and freedom that barred door represented, but she also knew she couldn’t keep it closed forever. Eventually she would have to let Captain Flint into his cabin, at some point she would have to face him. And perhaps before that, it might be nice to see the sky and feel the sun on her face, while Billy was on watch. Decided, she lifted the bar from the door, then balled up her dirty dress and quietly made her way out on deck.


	2. II

Miss Ashe came up not long after Billy had taken over the watch. She was using a length of rope to keep up over-large pants, and had an extra piece of cloth around her neck and tucked into the wide collar of her borrowed shirt to provide some modesty. The tangled curls of her hair were damp, and she looked almost luminously pale in the sunlight. Her feet were still bare, but now they weren't in engagement with another ship — with the risk of cannon shot and the splinters that brought — a lot of the men went barefoot, so that didn't seem such an issue.

He saw her in the moment she came up the ladder, hesitant and wide-eyed, placing her feet a little gingerly, clearly uncertain of her welcome. He had his watch busy, anybody besides the helmsman and the lookouts working on sanding the caprail, and they paid her no attention.

Then she spotted him and straightened up a little. He noticed that she carried the dirty dress she'd been wearing as a tight bundle under her arm.

"Better?" he asked, for want of something more useful to say. She looked like she felt better, despite what had to be very unfamiliar clothing to her.

"Much," she nodded. Then she indicated the bundle under her arm. "You said…" she cut her eyes to the wake of the ship.

Ah. Yes.

"Are you sure about this? It could get damaged."

"I want it clean or I want it gone," she said quietly, eyes on the dress, but with more steel than he'd expected.

Well then.

"Dirk, could you rig this up so we can drag it?" Billy asked one of his watch. The man looked at the indicated bundle and went to get a line. When he got back, he kneeled down to spread out the dress and thread the line through the sleeves.

"This from that filthy tub? We got better bait on the other fishing lines. What's the plan, Billy, fishin' for sea monsters?" he grumbled. "Ain't nothin' else we'll be catching with this."

Miss Ashe made a small sound, something that Billy thought might actually be a giggle. She brought her hand up to cover her mouth as if it had surprised herself most of all. He was a little amused by her interest when the dress went overboard, the line tied to the caprail. She watched it for a while as it got soaked, dragged through the wake of the ship.

The helmsman called up a comment, and he got distracted by the conversation about the prevailing winds. A while later, Miss Ashe appeared to his side, cautiously as if she wasn't sure where she was supposed to be. He turned to her.

“Is there somewhere out of the way I could sit in the sunshine?” she asked, darting her gaze up to his and away again. "I would not wish to bother your crew."

"As long as you're not right where they're sanding, I'm sure you wouldn't be," he told her. "But over there by the hatch makes a good seat, if you like." He indicated the hatch to the salon below, in the middle of the quarterdeck. She nodded her thanks and went to sit on the raised edge, closing her eyes and turning her face into the wind. After a moment her hands came up to start trying to pick apart the damp tangles of her hair, fingercombing as much as was possible, and Billy forced his attention back to his watch duty.

At two bells, Billy realised Miss Ashe had been sitting there, quiet and unobtrusive, for nearly half an hour. If she stayed in the sunshine much longer she was liable to burn, with how pale she was, but Billy wasn’t sure he wanted to disturb her. She looked at ease, finally, her eyes closed and the tension absent from her jaw, her face tilted up towards the light.

"Miss, the breeze makes it hard to feel, but the sun is getting to you," he said, feeling a little guilty when her eyes startled open at suddenly being addressed.

She blinked up at him, looking confused for half a moment. “Yes, I suppose you are right,” she said. “I would like to be in the fresh air for a while longer, though, I think,” she added, her gaze drifting to the shadow cast by the port rail.

Billy nodded and turned away. She didn’t need his permission to select a new seat, and he wanted to be sure she knew it. After a minute or two, she found herself a shady spot to sit out of the way of the men sanding, her back pressed to the high solid railing and her knees pulled up to her chest, pale bare toes resting on the deck. She looked up to find him watching her and held his gaze for a moment, wearing that same open and curious expression she had greeted him with earlier, before flicking her eyes away.

“To where do we sail?” she asked, and he ambled a little closer to her before answering, keeping his distance to avoid looming over her as she sat.

“Nassau,” he said, “home for the lot of us, in as much as we have one, and the next step in whatever plan the Captain has to get you back to your father.”

“Will we not simply sail to Charles Town?” she asked, finding his gaze again.

“Your father is Lord Ashe, isn’t he? Governor of the Carolinas?” At her nod, Billy shook his head. “Your father is well known in Nassau, and it isn’t for his lenient view on piracy. People like us, we tend not to go to Charles Town without a serious death-wish.”

A line formed between her eyebrows in what Billy thought might be confusion, but she nodded. “How long do you expect it will take, to reach Nassau?”

Billy shrugged. “Couple of days, depending on how the winds hold.”

She nodded again, looking lost in her own thoughts, and at a call from one of the men on his watch, he turned away and left her to them.

A few minutes later a flurry of motion from the section of rail near where she was sitting drew his attention to her again, momentarily concerned until he realised what was happening. The fishing line secured to the port rail beside her shoulder was jumping and skittering in a clear indication of something on the hook, and Miss Ashe had half turned towards it, looking both curious and wary.

“Well, go on, girl,” Thompson said from a few feet away, chuckling at her wide-eyed expression, “haul it on in, don’t let it get away!”

Eyebrows drawing together, she did as she was bid, turning towards the rail and rising up on her knees to grasp the line with both hands. A moment later she pushed to her feet, a determined set to her jaw as she began to pull at the line in earnest, looping each bit of slack she pulled up around the wooden board that held the excess line. She had gotten a good few feet hauled in when the line gave a sharp tug that had Miss Ashe quite suddenly leaning half way over the caprail, legs braced against the deck even as she favored her right foot. In the few seconds it took Billy to reach her, she managed to right herself, leaning back away from the rail and holding tight to the line with both hands. She looked up at him as he neared, eyes bright with triumph and the corners of her mouth curling up.

“Looks like you’ve got a live one there, Miss Ashe,” Billy said, slowing his approach when he was certain she wasn’t about to go toppling over the side. “May I?” he asked, motioning to the line she still held tight.

Miss Ashe looked up at him like he’d surprised her, but was smiling a little as she said, “I would appreciate the help, thank you.” She leaned away to give him space to take up the line, but held firm to the wooden board, continuing to coil up the slack as Billy hauled against the force of the fish trying to get away. It emerged from the water, shimmering blue and green, easily thirty pounds, and Billy was momentarily impressed at Miss Ashe getting as much of the line in as she had. When the fish was hanging suspended a few feet below the caprail, thrashing wildly on the line, he leaned over and pulled it up, holding it up to show the woman at his side.

The nearby men of his watch made appreciative sounds — fresh fish was always a morale raiser.

“Nice looking dorado,” he said, glancing between her and the writhing fish, “Randall and Silver will be glad to have it.” He pulled out his marlin spike and drove it into the fish’s skull, killing it easily, then looked up to find Miss Ashe watching him, her eyes wide, and he realised she was probably not used to seeing her dinner killed in front of her. He swallowed past his sudden awkwardness, and motioned toward the ladder that led below decks. “I should take this down to them. You’re welcome to come along, if you like, might be a good chance to see the mess while it’s relatively empty, and that way you’ll know how to get there, for mealtimes.”

She was still staring up at him, even paler than she had been before, but after a moment she managed a jerky nod. When he turned and started toward the ladder, he could hear her follow after him.

 

* * *

 

Abigail trailed behind Billy as he led the way below decks, carrying the recently-dead fish like a trophy. The stew he had given her earlier had undoubtedly been fish-based, so she knew she shouldn’t be surprised that fishing was a part of daily life aboard the ship, and yet the ease with which he had killed the fish, like it was nothing at all, sent a shiver down her spine that had not yet fully abated.

He'd been kind to her, considerate even, and she'd perhaps let that consideration lull her into a false sense of security about the kind of man he was. The most considerate among pirates was still a pirate, still somebody who chose to make an existence out of robbing innocent traders and merchantmen, by killing and looting. Flint's crew had sunk ships, had murdered entire crews.

There were those among the pirates who had clearly been slaves, and Abigail could see how an escaped slave would have no peace on land, would have nothing like a free life available to him except on a crew such as this, where they were treated as equals. Billy however, born and raised in England, with something of an education — Billy would have had other paths open to him, other lives he might have lived. That he chose this one overshadowed any kindness he had shown her.

Not a comforting thought as she followed him down the steps into the mess deck with its low beams and dark corners. The mess itself was empty aside from rows of hanging tables that shifted with the motion of the ship, illuminated by candles set inside glass lanterns. At the far end there was a small galley, open to the mess, pots and pans and other cooking implements hung over and wedged in around a square brick hearth set into the floor from which firelight shown, but no obvious flames.

When they were halfway down the mess, walking in between the swaying tables, Billy whistled to draw the attention of the two men working on the evening meal in the small kitchen space. At the noise they both looked up, the elder one balanced on crutches and one leg, the younger, dark-haired man turning to face them more fully.

“What is that?” the younger cook called as they neared, his gaze locked on the fish and his voice wary and none too pleased, with a thick thread of sarcasm winding through it.

Abigail glanced up at Billy as she came to a stop beside him outside the galley, confused, just in time to catch him rolling his eyes at the man. “Miss Ashe,” he said, turning his gaze to her, blue eyes dark in the gloom, “This is Mr. Silver, and Randall, the ship’s cooks,” he said, indicating them each in turn with his free hand. “Silver, Randall, this is Miss Ashe, she’s the Captain’s guest back to Nassau, remember?”

“How could I forget?” Mr. Silver asked, turning to her briefly to meet her eyes and say dryly, “Charmed,” before turning back to Billy. “What is that?” he asked again, pointing at the fish, his tone not changing once.

Billy held up the fish. “Thirty pound dorado,” he said. “Miss Ashe here helped bring it up, thought it might be helpful for supper tonight.”

“You couldn’t have caught that a few hours ago?” Mr. Silver asked, resigned and sarcastic in equal measures.

“Fish happen when they happen, Silver,” Billy said. “Do you want it or not?”

Mr. Silver gave the dorado a flat, unimpressed look. “Oh yes, I’ll just add it to tonight’s dinner —  which is nearly finished,” he said, in what Abigail was beginning to suspect was his default tone of voice, gesturing behind him to the covered pot hanging suspended over the bricks and low fire.

“Bit late to throw it back now,” Billy said, still holding the dead fish out to him.

Abigail pursed her lips at Mr. Silver’s eyeroll, surprised to find herself amused by their interaction and unwilling to let it show, while beside her Billy glared at the man.

Silver sighed. “It will be a lovely addition to tomorrow’s breakfast,” he said, reaching out to accept the fish at last. “I thank you for your kind contribution to our humble crew, Miss Ashe,” he added, bowing to her theatrically in a way that seemed to match his sarcasm, fish held to out to one side.

With only a moment’s hesitation, Abigail dropped a curtsey in response, plucking at her wide canvas pants the way she would a skirt, then glanced up to find Billy looking between the two of them, as though torn between confusion and amusement at their exchange. Mr. Silver handed the fish off to Randall, picked up two bowls from a large stack, and turned back towards them.

“As thanks, let me offer you your suppers early, so you can eat up on deck before the hordes descend.” He lifted the lid of the pot bubbling over the brick stove and ladled both bowls full before turning to them.

“Thank you, Mr. Silver,” she said as she accepted one of the bowls from him and Billy the other. “That’s very kind of you.”

He didn’t quite seem to know what to do with her sincere thanks. “Well, the exchange rate is one bowl for one fish, so don’t get any ideas. Either that or find us more fish. And earlier in the day, next time, if you don’t mind.”

 

Abigail returned to the salon after supper on deck, jumping slightly when she opened the door to find Captain Flint seated in the high-backed chair behind the desk, his attention on the charts and papers spread in front of him. Her gasp must have drawn his attention, because he looked up and then pushed to standing when he saw her hovering in the doorway.

“Miss Ashe,” he said, inclining his head as she dropped her gaze to the floor. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

She nodded in acknowledgement, unsure of how else to respond.

“If you’d like to come in and take a seat, I believe we have a few things to discuss,” he said, voice calm and even. She flicked her gaze up to his face, but his expression was one of polite reserve, similar to what any man of his age might wear in London. She nodded again and crossed the space to sit in one of the chairs opposite his, clasping her hands in her lap to keep them from trembling. It was hard to ignore the stories echoing in her head, all the things she'd heard about this man, his ruthlessness, his cunning, his cruelty.

Captain Flint waited until she was seated before turning towards the bookshelf on the port wall of the salon, moving slowly in what she had to assume was an attempt not to startle her again. From the bookshelf he pulled a large leather-bound book, its spine unmarked and its cover remarkably pristine compared with the others on the shelf.

“I have a letter for you,” he said, crossing back to the desk with the book in hand, surprising Abigail in a way his presence had not, “from a mutual friend: Lady Miranda Hamilton.” Once seated again in the high-backed chair, he opened the unmarked book to produce a sheaf of papers, folded and sealed, with her name written elegantly and precisely across the front. He handed it to her across the width of the desk, and after a moment of hesitation, she reached out and accepted it from him.

“Thank you, sir,” she said, turning the letter over in her hands. “Do you know Lady Hamilton, then?” she asked, and instantly regretted it — he had said Lady Hamilton was a mutual friend, and challenging him on that assertion suddenly seemed unwise.

But Captain Flint merely smiled gently. “I know her well,” he said without elaborating. “I knew your father, too, when we were still in London, and I met your mother and yourself a few times when you were very small, though you were probably too young to remember it.”

“You seem like someone I would remember,” she said without thinking, and Flint smiled more broadly, as though she had made a joke.

“I was significantly less notable at the time, as a Naval Lieutenant rather than a pirate captain,” he said, that same amusement in his voice.

“And Lady Hamilton is here in the Bahamas?” Abigail asked. Many of the women who had formed the backbone of her social circle in London had been friends of Lady Hamilton before her husband’s untimely death and her total withdrawal from English society and the country as a whole, but few if any of them had been in contact with her in the intervening decade, and none seemed to know where she had retired in her grief. As unlikely as a letter from the all but vanished woman seemed, it also strained credulity that one of the most feared pirate captains in the New World could so convincingly spin a lie with information connected to Abigail’s life in London, for no purpose other than to gain her trust when he already had her aboard his ship.

“On New Providence Island, where we’re going now, yes,” he replied. “She has a small homestead in the interior. Once we’ve returned to Nassau, I have no doubt she will want to see you as soon as possible.”

“I would like that, I think,” Abigail replied, running her fingers over the wax sealing the letter and trying to reconcile her memory of the glamorous Lady Hamilton with what she had thus far seen of the pirates of Nassau. “My mother and Lady Hamilton were close friends, when I was young.”

“So Miranda has mentioned to me, more than a few times,” he replied, smiling. “But if you’ll excuse me, Miss Ashe, I really do need to finish charting our course. You’re welcome to stay and read your letter, if you like.”

“Thank you, Captain,” she said, nodding. When he directed his attention back to the maps that covered the desk, she slipped from her chair and turned towards the partition in the corner.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Captain Flint said, halting her in her steps, her heart thudding against her ribs. “Lady Hamilton also asked me to give you this,” he said, holding out the unmarked book to her. “She thought you might enjoy recording your thoughts during our journey back to Nassau. Once I’m through here, you’re welcome to use the desk, and the quills are just there.”

Abigail accepted the journal with murmured thanks, then retreated behind the curtain to allow the Captain to focus on his charts, and to read the mysterious letter that bore her name. She curled up in one of the windowseats with her back to the setting sun, broke the wax seal that bore the Hamilton’s unmistakeable crest, and unfolded the letter.

 _My dearest Miss Ashe,_ it began.

_I pray this letter finds you, and finds you as well as can be hoped, given the circumstances. I know you have been through a most dreadful ordeal, and now that you find yourself a guest of Captain Flint, I can well imagine the stories that are no doubt in your mind now. Allow me to reassure you: he is an ally to you, as am I._

_My name is Miranda Hamilton, and I was a friend of your parents, Peter and Elizabeth Ashe, in London more than ten years ago now. I remember you quite well, and though you were young at the time, I hold out hope that you remember me as well. The man in whose guardianship you now find yourself was then known as Lieutenant James McGraw, and he, too, was a friend of your parents, and once spent a sunny afternoon in May theatrically losing to you in a game of croquet — an incident I particularly hope you remember for its own merits alone, but also for any comfort it may bring you in your strange new surroundings._

Abigail reread the sentence but could make no further sense of it the second time through. She had been fond of croquet as a child, it was true, and she had some hazy memory of Lord and Lady Hamilton visiting her parents during the sort of long holiday that might well have included croquet; but trying to imagine the fearsome Captain Flint traipsing about her father’s lawn with her was simply too much for Abigail on the heels of everything else that had happened since sunrise, and after a third read she continued on with the rest of the letter, no less puzzled.

 _My dear girl, I know you have survived an experience of unspeakable horror, but I mean to do everything in my power to assure you that you are safe in the care of Mr. McGraw — in the care of Captain Flint. When we heard you had been taken, James and I made it our mission to find where you were being kept, rescue you, and bring you safely back to Nassau; our fond memories of you and the friendship we still bear your father and late mother would not allow us to do any less. You need not fear harm from Captain Flint nor any man on his crew, and when the_ Revenge _reaches Nassau, I will be waiting anxiously to greet you._

_I have asked Captain Flint to relay to you my gift of a journal in which to record your thoughts (and if he has forgotten, which he well may, do not be afraid to remind him of my request). I have always derived a great deal of comfort in trying times from the freedom to record my thoughts with the intended readership of no one but myself. It is my hope that you might find such comfort in these blank pages as well, in the days until we meet._

_Ever your loyal and true friend,_

_Miranda Hamilton_

Abigail read the letter again, trying to push past her physical and mental exhaustion to really comprehend what the papers in her hands implied: that she was well and truly _rescued_ , in the company of friends who would see her safely to her father, who would—

On the other side of the sailcloth curtain, Captain Flint pushed back his chair from the desk, its feet scraping on the wooden deck, and Abigail froze, barely daring to breathe as she listened to his footsteps across the cabin, unable to determine if he was coming near to her corner or not.

“Pardon me, Miss Ashe,” he said, his voice closer to the salon door than to her partition. “I’m headed up on deck now. My watch ends at midnight and I don’t expect I’ll be back before then, so the salon is yours. As I said, you’re welcome to use the desk if you like. I’ll see you in the morning. Good evening, Miss Ashe.”

“Good evening, Captain Flint,” she squeaked, sounding choked to her own ears, and only managed a proper breath after he had closed the salon door behind him.

Abigail spent a while just staring at the letter, trying to regain some sort of composure. There was so much to process, not in the least that the Captain just let her know when to expect him, in his own space no less. It was a kind of consideration she hadn't thought to expect.

Knowing herself to be alone, not about to be walked in on, she changed into her now clean and dry shift and clambered into the hanging cot in her little partition of the salon. She felt utterly exhausted from everything that had happened that day, the terror of the _Nemo_ being approached, of facing Captain Flint, of her circumstances once again changing beyond her control. So despite the unfamiliar sounds of the ship, the occasional booted footsteps overhead and the low murmur of conversation, it took mere minutes to fall asleep.


	3. III

During her weeks aboard the _Good Fortune_ , Abigail had grown used to the regular ringing of the ship's bells, and it had become a background sound much like any other on the ship, somehow comforting in its rhythm. It had made her feel like the ship had a chiming heart dictating its working, directing every crew member filling his role in the miniature society of the ship. She had observed the watch changeovers, the comforting routine of helmsman relieving helmsman, of Mate handing over to Captain with a few simple updates about weather or sailwork. There had been something reassuring about the way the oncoming watch settled in and the offgoing watch trooped below decks for sleep or meal, confident of having left the ship and their collective well being in good hands. It was like the ship's bells themselves had chimed _'all is well_ '.

But then during her time on the _Nemo_ , she'd come to dread the ringing of eight-bells, the number of chimes that signalled a watch changeover. It had meant a relative calm got disturbed by booted feet stomping in the direction of the tiny, locked cabin that was her cell, because it was along the path the men followed toward their own quarters. Eight-bells had meant taunting voices trying to get a reaction out of her, leering faces staring through the little hatch in the door. At one point, when she'd given in to grief and despair and remained curled up in her hammock for days, ignoring them best as she could, they had tied a knife to a pole, put it through that tiny hatch, and cut the rope of her hammock. She'd fallen to the hard deck with a startled scream, knocking her head against the wood, and caused much raucous laughter with the men.

So it wasn't entirely a surprise when she heard the bells even in her sleep and woke up just enough to count along with them. _Five chimes_ , she thought with relief, and drifted off again, rocked by the motion of the ship.

The next time she woke it was eight-bells, and the subsequent footsteps of the watch changing overhead had her bright awake, staring anxiously at the ceiling of the salon, waiting for the door to open. The curtain that had made her feel so comforted earlier in the day, had made her felt like she had some sort of privacy, now seemed like exactly what it was — symbolic only. A thin line in the sand, to be respected or violated at the will of the Captain.

She was in his space, at his mercy, and despite what she had thought earlier were genuine efforts to make her feel at ease, despite the assurances in the letter purported to be from Lady Hamilton... in the dark of the empty salon, awaiting the Captain, it was impossible to ignore just how much her treatment depended on his whim. It might suit him to be kind. It might stop suiting him at any time. Some other, baser instinct might take over, and there would be nothing she could do.

The sound of the doorknob turning made her body freeze up, her mind suddenly, unbidden, back under the stairs of the _Good Fortune_ , trying to be quiet enough not to be found.

The footsteps were slow and heavy, and he was carrying a lantern, she saw the shadows his large shape threw on the ceiling, grotesque and enormous. Even in the continuous sounds of the ship itself, its creaking, the wind in the rigging, the rushing of water against the hull, the quiet sounds of men — even amidst all that, fear made the Captain's footfalls sound loud. Abigail listened anxiously as he walked deeper into the salon, breath frozen in her chest until she could convince herself he had not come in her direction but gone to the corner where he kept his personal things.

She heard him open his sea chest, the rustle of clothing, the soft twin thumps of what she thought might be his boots being taken off and set down. Then the hinges of the sea chest again, and suddenly a loud crack that made her gasp, made her reflexively cover her mouth with her hand.

It was utterly silent in the salon for the space of a few moments, and then she heard the Captain mutter a soft, disgruntled "Fuck."

It took a few more moments before she could make herself breathe properly again. He continued moving around, and then the lantern went out, and she heard the creak of his hanging cot settling.

Abigail could still hear her own heart thudding by the time she heard a soft snore from the other side of the salon. It was some time past one-bells that she finally fell asleep again.

 

Somehow she managed to sleep through into the morning, missing the next watch change entirely. What woke her was a knock on the salon door and a muffled 'Seven bells, Captain!' It was immediately followed by a grunt of acknowledgement and the sound of the Captain sitting up in his cot.

Abigail didn't move, comfortable in her gently rocking cot and by now unaccustomed to have any reason to get up. On the _Nemo_ she'd stayed in her hammock until her back started to ache, until her body demanded she pace the four steps her cabin was long.

She startled a little when the Captain cleared his throat.

"Suggest you go get your breakfast before the morning watch comes down from the bridge like a plague of locusts," he recommended, and she blinked at the dry humour in his disembodied voice.

Then she grimaced to herself as it sank in what he meant. The previous day's meals had been kindly brought up for her, but now apparently she was expected to go down to the mess deck for meals like everybody else. She'd seen the cramped, dark space with the hanging tables, and it was all too easy to picture it full of pirates.

"No thank you, sir," she said, voice gone small at the thought. "I've no appetite."

He hummed in acknowledgement, and she heard the rustle of clothing as he dressed himself.

"Smells like the morning watch baked bread," he pointed out, and she heard the thumps of him stepping into his boots. Now he mentioned it, she did get the occasional waft of… the scent kicked her stomach into abrupt wakefulness, an enthusiasm even the prospect of having to be in the mess amidst pirates couldn't quell.

Abigail sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the cot, moving her weight until she could steady the swing of the cot with her toes on the deck. She waited for the ship to roll to her side and let herself slide onto her feet, wincing at the stabbing pain in her right heel.

The clunk of the Captain closing his sea chest reminded her of the man's presence. Was he waiting for her to dress and join him? Surely not? But then, dressing in her borrowed clothes was the work of mere seconds, not the arduous process of stays and petticoats she'd once been so used to. She tried to fingercomb her hair but quickly gave up — she wouldn't be able to tackle the tangles without a comb, and possibly assistance. For now she wound it into a simple bun. It barely seemed to take time at all before she ducked through the opening in the curtain.

The Captain was standing by his bookcase, idly considering titles, obviously waiting for her, and Abigail suddenly felt awkward and uneasy again, uncertain how to be in this man's vicinity. He heard her approach and turned to her, perfectly straight backed like the Naval officer he once had been. For a moment she thought he might offer his arm, like a man of his position might have done in London, to escort her to the dining room. Then the moment passed, and he just nodded at her in acknowledgement, and went to the door.

He preceded her down the stairs to the mess deck, which would have been rude in any other circumstance, but given the loud greeting he received as he came into sight, she was glad of it. He was to take the bridge at 8, and these were the men who'd take the watch with him. She'd met the part of the crew that was Billy's watch — perhaps 'met' was overly generous, but they were now at least faces she recognised. These men though were mostly new to her, a dark, loud sea of large, rough men that parted before the Captain, and she carefully kept her eyes on Flint's back as she followed him to a table, trying to stay close and avoid drawing any attention to herself.

The Captain chose a seat with his back to the side of the ship, and after a moment of hesitation, she slid in next to him on the bench, the strangeness of that position nonetheless preferable over sitting with her back to all these men.

The cook she’d met briefly the day before, Randall, brought them food, a bowl of fish stew — much the same as the dinner the night before — and a chunk of, oh wonders, fresh, still-warm bread. It was dense and coarse of texture, nothing like the fluffy bread she used to eat in London, but she could not have cared less. The Captain glanced at her with something of amusement in his face, and she realised she'd been tearing chunks off with her fingers and popping them straight into her mouth, as if her captivity had erased all knowledge of cutlery and table manners from her mind entirely.

But he only said, "Glad it was worth getting up for," and continued to eat his own breakfast with somewhat more dignity, but no less speed.

Once she'd satisfied her appetite with the bread, she ate her stew more slowly, now and then glancing up to observe the men around her. They were shoving and jostling each other around the tables, stealing one another's bread, and now and then she was startled by a sudden roar of laughter, or anger, it was hard to tell.

Most of the men ignored her, but she became aware of one of them who kept his gaze on her, frankly looking her over in a way that made her want to put on more clothes, even though she was fully covered by her borrowed pants and shirt.

The heavily bearded man caught her gaze and grinned openly, but movement from her side drew her eyes back to Captain Flint, who was shooting the man a flat, stern look. When she glanced back at the man, he was scraping the last of his food from his bowl and getting up to leave. She cast her eyes down again.

There was a large timeglass attached to the wall by where the cooks worked, and the sand in it was down to its last quarter. She'd guessed that the glass was a double of the one used up on deck to time the bells, intended to give crew having their meal before watch a sense of time for their meal. Indeed, most of the men were already getting up and heading out, and the Captain glanced at her bowl, clearly also needing to get up on deck.

She didn't want to keep him after he'd been considerate of her, and very much did not want to be down here by herself, so she hastily scraped up the last of the stew, taking big bites that would have had Lady Chudleigh giving her severe looks. Captain Flint, on the other hand, merely gave her a mild look and waited for her to finish before rising and leading the way towards the galley to deposit their used dishes before heading back up on deck.

 

Abigail spent the hours of the Captain's morning watch, from just after breakfast until midday, in the salon. The privacy of knowing the Captain to be on the bridge, of being able to bar the door if she so wished, were an unspeakable pleasure. She re-read the letter purported to be from Lady Hamilton — how such a lady had come to be a sympathiser of pirates, let alone personally acquainted with them, was still a mystery to Abigail — and wrote in the journal she'd been given.

Above her head she heard the splashing of water and the rhythmic scrape of holystones. That part of the ship's routine was much the same as it had been on the _Good Fortune_ — the morning watch washed down the deck and scrubbed it, keeping the deck planks from drying out in the sun and shrinking. Despite it being the Captain's watch, it sounded like a cheerful enough business, the padding of bare feet, the occasional good-natured cursing as water accidentally or deliberately hit crew instead of deck. For the moment, behind the barred door, she could almost imagine herself back on the _Good Fortune_ , excited about the voyage and about seeing the colonies.

Then she glanced around herself, caught sight of the Captain's sea-chest, and her mood fell again. This was not that ship, and she was no longer that girl.

Even knowing that such a journal was likely to be found and read by the Captain, it was a relief to unburden herself about her time on the _Good Fortune_ , about the attack by the _Nemo_ , about the horrifying moment her sweet attendant and chaperone Róisín had been torn away from her. Of her short time on the _Revenge_ so far she only recorded her treatment, which she described as considerate, but very little of her thoughts about the pirates and her current situation.

When the bells sounded to mark the watch change, Abigail unbarred the door, not knowing when the Captain might want use of the salon again. She gathered up her journal and the letter from Lady Hamilton and retired to a windowseat in her partitioned corner, and when Captain Flint returned a short time later, he once again escorted her below decks for the noontime meal.

After lunch, he retired to the salon to review his charts, but as they left the mess, Abigail slowly became aware of an increased pain in her right foot, a stab of sensation every time her heel touched the deck. She reluctantly concluded it warranted a closer look in direct sunlight. Surely there was a spot on deck where she would not be in the way. Or, preferably, be noticed by the crew.

She didn't even get as far as finding such a spot. There was a large piece of sailcloth spread out on the main deck, and several men sitting around it, repairing tears. One of them was Billy, and he got to his feet when he saw her limp out of the aft salon.

"Miss Ashe,” he said, approaching her. “Are you well?"

She felt a bit unnerved by his immediate attention, with his earnest concern for her, and cast down her eyes, self-conscious. "I am fine, thank you."

"Your foot hurts," he pointed out. "Do you need the doctor?"

Abigail remembered 'Doc' on the _Nemo_ , an oily little man who'd dosed her with laudanum when she'd gotten inconveniently loud or upset, and shuddered.

"I thought I might soak in salt water," she said to avoid answering his question.

She was grateful when he did not insist on the doctor, only fetched a bucket and a line and hauled up a bucket of seawater for her. Abigail found a place to sit out of the sun and soaked her foot, waiting for the bells to sound twice before removing it from the bucket for inspection. The pain was still there when she pressed on the underside of her heel, and after a little careful exploration, she found the point of brightest pain, centered on something hard just under the skin. Abigail twisted on the bench, trying to see the underside of her heel better. There definitely seemed to be a splinter lodged in there, though the salt water soak had softened the skin around it. If she could find the right angle on it, she could probably prise it out with something like pinchers, but no matter how she turned, she couldn’t quite reach.

“What’s the verdict?” Billy asked, approaching her slowly, seeming to intentionally put himself in her line of sight.

She looked up at him and then back down at her foot. “Splinter, I believe. But I can’t quite get to it.”

He hesitated a moment, then said, “I could take a look, if you like? Though Dr. Howell will have better tools for it.”

She wasn't sure what her expression did just then, but he seemed to read her well enough, and dropped the subject of the doctor.

"I'll ask if I can borrow his things."

 

He returned a short time later with a leather roll full of fine tools, and sat down next to her on the bench.

She turned sideways, angled toward him, and lifted her foot onto the bench between them with no little wariness. He glanced at her before lightly touching her ankle, rough fingers trailing the sensitive skin over her anklebone. Then, when she made no objection, he lifted her foot and moved closer so he could settle it into his lap.

"Christ, your feet are tiny," he muttered, measuring the length of his hand against that of her foot.

"They are not!" Abigail burst out before she could stop herself, laughingly indignant. Her guardian had in fact more than once remarked on the size of her feet. "They are— appropriately sized. In proportion."

"I suppose they are, at that," Billy conceded, and they both automatically glanced at _his_ feet, which were giant to her eyes.

"Must cost half a cow to make those boots," Abigail said before she could think better of it.

“You sound like the cordwainer in Nassau,” he replied, chuckling, while he gently probed the sore spot on her foot.

“There’s a cordwainer in Nassau?” she asked. She was a little unnerved by the feeling of his hand on her ankle, a touch more intimate than she'd thought to expect.

He glanced up at her, bright blue eyes flickering up to hers and back down at her foot, then shrugged. “It’s a working town, same as any other. Well, mostly the same, at any rate.”

He selected a set of fine pinchers from the roll.

“Besides the pirates, you mean?”

“It takes a town to support as many crews as Nassau is home to. Cordwainer, cooper, sailmaker, blacksmith, tailor, dressmaker probably...”

He trailed off as he worked on the splinter, long tanned fingers wrapped around her ankle, and she tried not to twitch or kick. It was easier to concentrate on the conversation, and she replayed that last part. A dressmaker— Oh! Her own dress, the travel dress she'd worn until just yesterday, was still being dragged behind the ship! It was strange to realise she had completely forgotten about it, far more comfortable in her borrowed clothes than she had thought possible.

"...My dress is still in the water," she said finally, into the oddly comfortable silence between them. Even if she didn't want to put it back on until their arrival in Nassau, she should look at the state of it.

Billy glanced up at her when she spoke, looking surprised. "So it is!" he agreed, apparently also having forgot about the dress. He peered at her foot, grip on her ankle tightening a little. There was a sharp sting of pain, making her suck in a hiss of breath, and then he looked triumphant.

"Got it. Nasty splinter."

She hummed in acknowledgement. He still had his hand on her ankle, fingertips idly stroking sensitive skin, and it felt warm and shivery and unreasonably pleasant and it was entirely, undeniably improper. She should pull back her leg, take her foot from his lap. She should clear her throat and give him the kind of frosty look she'd never hesitated to give any young man in London who'd gotten too free with her.

Perhaps it could be blamed on the loneliness and despair of her long captivity, on it being the first kind touch since her dear Róisín had combed out her hair on the morning that the _Nemo_ came.

The wind seemed to have dwindled down to nothing, the ship gently bobbing, her sails barely filling. There was a sudden burst of activity on the quarterdeck as the watchkeeper, who she had learned was called Mr. De Groot, sent some men forward to do… something… with some lines, but Abigail really wasn't sure what it was for. Billy seemed to come to attention though, glanced from her foot to her face as if checking if she'd noticed the odd moment, the unnecessary touch, and then guided her foot out of his lap and toward the bucket.

"You should uh, soak your foot some more so it doesn't go septic. I’ll have someone haul up your dress and hang it to dry."

The water was cool enough to sooth the sting of where the splinter had been, and she only nodded, feeling a little dazed. Billy headed off to the quarterdeck, and she idly watched him talk to Mr. De Groot, both pointing at different parts of the masts, their faces animated. His sleeves were rolled up, and her eyes dwelled on the lines of his forearms, his broad wrists. It shouldn't really be possible for somebody built like that to touch her with as much care as he had, should it?

He returned to the deck area where she was sitting and where men were still working on the sail, and he sent somebody below to rouse up the rest of his watch for setting stunsails. This meant nothing to Abigail, but caused a degree of interest, perhaps even excitement, with some of the men.

Billy took a number of the men into the foc'stle and some time later they returned with large packages of sailcloth, bundles of lines and blocks. In the meantime the sail they'd been repairing had been stowed away, and the newly brought up things were spread out.

"None of it labelled, of course," Billy called up to De Groot. The older man laughed.

"Of course not! We would not want to get bored, would we?"

He sent some men aloft to look for something Abigail didn't hear, and meanwhile Billy and his watch started to sort through the things they'd brought up, tentatively matching line bundles to sails. Apparently he noticed her interest, because he stopped by her to explain what was happening.

"We've not had this ship for very long, and we've never set her stuns'ls."

"Where do they go?" She did not see space in the mast for more sails to go.

"They're very light weather sails, they go outside the main, either side of it on this course. We rig booms out from the railing and the course yard," he pointed, "and the sail goes between there."

"But first you have to put it all in place? It seems like a lot of work with so little wind."

"It is!" he agreed with a grin. "But if it's the difference between going backward on the tide, which is what's currently happening, and going half a knot in the right direction, it's well worth it. Plus, kind of an interesting puzzle."

He got called from aloft and shot her a small smile before he walked away so he could see whoever was shouting down. Abigail took her foot out of the bucket and probed at the injured spot, then tested her foot on the deck — it was much improved, sore now rather than sharply painful.

Not long later the eight-bells sounded to signal the watch change. Since both watches were occupied on deck the handover between De Groot and Billy was a formality, but the helmsman looked impatient to be relieved from his boring task, eager to get helping with the interesting sailwork.

Abigail observed as Billy looked around for his own men, who were all busying themselves with rigging in lines. Then suddenly he was giving her a speculative look.

“How’s the foot feeling?” he asked as he approached.

“Much better, thank you,” Abigail replied, standing as he neared.

"Want to help sail the ship?" he asked, something of a friendly challenge in his tone. "I need a helmsman, and if you're just hanging around anyway…"

"I—I don't know how?" she protested, even as her feet were already going along with the lightly guiding hand he'd put between her shoulderblades.

"Not to worry, it's not very exciting right now, is it, Dale?" he asked the current helmsman. His eyes deep-set and almost disappearing in his sun-wrinkled face, the man grunted.

"'Aven't moved the wheel since just after seven-bells, and only half a spoke then."

"There you go, not exactly hard work on this wind," Billy said. "Thank you Dale, I've got it."

The helmsman grunted an acknowledgement, handing the wheel off to Billy and going to join the rest of his watch in preparing the sails.

"Here, put your hand on the wheel," Billy implored her, seeming to sense that she was intimidated by the idea. "I promise, it's very simple on this wind, and I'll be right nearby in case you do struggle."

She still hesitated, intimidated by the enormity of this. He wanted her to steer the ship! The whole giant thing with all of them on it, under her control. It was like he was giving her back that lantern by the powder magazine.

She reached out and lightly put her hand on the end of the same spoke he was holding. On the _Good Fortune_ she'd seen helmsmen work often enough, sometimes only one, in heavy winds as many as four to keep the wheel steady. There was no resistance now that she could feel, which made sense if they were more drifting than sailing.

"It's easiest if you stand here," he indicated just in front of him, "because that's where we're looking." He pointed up, and she had to turn and step into the place he'd indicated, to the left side of the wheel and with her back to him, to see where he meant. She followed the line of the arm that he was pointing over her shoulder to the uppermost sail of the main mast, feeling momentarily bracketed in by him, but not in an unpleasant way.

"If the edge of that sail starts to push backward, then we've gone too far to port, and you move the wheel a little bit away from the wind. That way," he indicated as if to push the spoke they were holding away from where they were standing. "Then when it's looking right again, you pull the wheel back over to where it is right now, since she's pretty steady there."

Abigail took a deep breath and nodded. This was intimidating, being given this responsibility over the entire ship, but there was also a delightful thrill to it. It felt good that he thought she was capable of this, that he wouldn't have put her into this position otherwise. She gripped the end of the spoke more firmly, the side of her hand touching against his much larger hand, warmer than the sun-warmed wood under her palm. He shifted his weight where he was standing behind her, and after a long moment he took his own hand away, leaving the wheel to her, trembling ever so slightly beneath her hands with the ocean current.

Billy caught her eye and smiled as he went to rejoin his men, and she found herself smiling back, that thrill in his confidence in her rushing through her again. The task he had described seemed simple enough, but Abigail found that in the light and variable breeze, she had to keep her eyes on the sail Billy had indicated near constantly, adjusting the wheel a little this way, and a little that, feeling the winds and the currents and the ship itself move almost like a living thing.

At some point after one-bells, the Captain came out on deck, and Abigail froze when his gaze passed over her, then halted, clearly noticing the unusual helmsman. His eyebrows went up a little and he looked from her to where Billy was directing the men aloft. Mr. De Groot was up there with a few of the men, getting the intricacies of the stuns'l rigging worked out. What if she got into trouble for doing this? What if Billy did, for letting her?

And of course just in this moment she heard a flapping and noticed the sail had began to fill the wrong way. She jerked the wheel away from herself, and when nothing happened, pushed it another spoke, looking up anxiously. Nothing seemed to happen at all, and the Captain had to have noticed this. She was very aware that this was a task she could fail at, and that there were consequences to that failure. Her safety and her future depended entirely on the Captain’s whim, and after the thrill of Billy’s trust in her, being reminded of that fact sat like a cold stone in her gut. She was likely easy enough to ignore, perhaps even to indulge in small ways, when she was merely present, but she hadn't really meant to bring herself to the Captain’s attention in this manner, by being in a position of consequence, and filling that position poorly.

The ship finally started to come away from the wind, and she let out a shaky breath, trying to ease the clench of her hand on the wheel. It was all right. It had gone wrong, but she'd managed to fix it.

A minute later she realised that the ship was still slowly turning away from the wind, the shadows of the rig on deck slowly shifting, and that she was taking them off the course further and further. Abigail whispered some words she definitely wasn't supposed to use, or even know, and yanked the wheel toward herself, trying to bring the ship back up into the wind.

Captain Flint looked up at the sails and then to her, and came striding in her direction, his face unreadable and stern. It was all she could do to hold her ground and not abandon the wheel. That would be worse than poor helming, surely.

To her surprise he didn't touch the wheel to set the ship to rights, but instead stood to her left, looking up to the sail's edge.

"We're barely moving," he said in his low, gruff rumble, "so very little water is flowing past the rudder."

Abigail startled to realise that he apparently wasn’t disapproving enough of her being on the helm to yank her away.

"That means the response to what you're doing is very slow. The correction you just gave won't have any effect for another minute or so, and then it will be too heavy."

He was explaining — _teaching_ her.

Abigail nodded her understanding, unable to find her voice to reply. She pushed a spoke away from her, making her correction smaller. She glanced at the Captain for confirmation, and he nodded, eyes on the men aloft.

After what felt like at least half an eternity, the ship slowly began to come up into the wind, the shadows on deck shifting back to where they had been. Abigail brought the wheel back to its beginning position, and from the corner of her eyes saw the Captain nod. She could still feel her heart beat in her throat, but his apparent willingness to let her do this, and to teach her better if she was doing it wrong, oddly reminded her of her tutors in London. They'd been believers in not taking things out of her hands, too. It was a strange feeling to recognise the same sort of teacher in Captain Flint, of all people.

"Small corrections and patience, Miss Ashe," he said, with what she might almost suppose to be approval in his voice. He walked away to where Mr. De Groot had just come down onto deck, and she drew a shaky breath.

She stayed at the helm while the two watches worked to assemble and rig in the stuns’ls, keeping her attention mostly to the movement of the sails and the adjustments required on the wheel, but every so often finding the Captain watching her, nodding slightly or motioning to her unobtrusively to increase or decrease a correction as she kept course. Billy didn’t seem unaware of their interactions, but merely smiled at her approvingly when she caught his gaze.

By shortly after two-bells, the stuns’ls were in place and ready to set. After all that work getting them rigged in, setting them was a surprisingly quick affair. Nobody would have said it was an underwhelming experience however, because the already impressive stack of sails had suddenly widened, like a swan spreading its wings. It didn't make a very noticeable difference to their speed to Abigail's eye, but she did notice that the ship responded easier to her helming, less sluggish to her corrections.

With the men now down from the rigging, Mr. De Groot’s watch headed off to well-earned rest, while Billy set the men of his watch to other tasks around the ship. When Abigail next looked down from the uppermost sail, Billy was walking towards her, smiling, another man of his watch close at his heels — the same one who had helped her aboard the day before. “You are relieved of duty, Miss Ashe,” he said, coming to a halt beside her and nodding once smartly. “Bosedeh will take over. We thank you for your assistance.”

She smiled up at him and stepped away to make room for the other man to step in and take her place, waiting until the new helmsman had the wheel in his control and nodded to her before removing her hand. She followed Billy a few paces away, looking up at him as they walked. “How did I do?” she asked.

Billy looked around as though considering the ship, but there was a glint in his eyes she thought might be mischief. “Well, you’ve got us pointed back around towards Tortuga, but well enough for a first go, at least.”

It startled a laugh out of her, half-indignant. “I most definitely did not!” At his raised eyebrow, she said, “I am certain we are at least relatively still on course.”

“That sure, are you?” he said, looking like he was trying not to smile.

She drew herself up but resisted the urge to put her hands on her hips. “The sun is still lowering off our port quarter. I may not be much of a sailor, but I know enough to find north!”

“You might be a _little_ bit of a sailor, now,” he said, motioning towards the helm. “A _little_ bit, with your tiny feet and all,” he added, indicating with his hands her short stature.

She shot him an exasperated look, but too amused to hide it.

“Proportional, proportional feet,” he amended. “How’s it feeling, by the way?” he asked, his voice more serious, nodding toward her aforementioned _proportional_ feet.

“Better than it was, but sore now from the standing. I thought I might soak it a bit longer.”

Billy nodded. “Might be best to take the bucket into the salon, you’ve been out in the sun a good while now, wouldn’t want you to be bright red by the time we reach Tortuga.”

“Nassau.”

“Right.”


	4. IV

After supper in the mess, Captain Flint again left the salon for Abigail’s sole use, and she filled the time writing in her journal of everything that had happened since breakfast. Abigail had thought of Róisín often, grieved for her friend and confidante, but she had never before missed her as much as she did right now, full of the events of the day and no one with whom to share them. Despite her awareness that her journal would be read by others, by the Captain or her father or more than likely both, she ended up entrusting some of her feelings to paper.

She wrote of the thrill of being trusted to steer the ship, of the pride and gratitude she felt at Captain Flint judging her worthy of teaching how to better manage the helm, of the confidence and assurance that came from being treated as a person capable of handling responsibility. Of her time with Billy she wrote less, censoring emotions she did not know how to describe in words and would not wish anyone else to read even if she did, and choosing to keep the entire sequence with his hand on her ankle decidedly unwritten. She wrote instead of the setting of the stunsails, the way Billy lit up at the technical challenge, the trust he’d shown in putting her in charge of the helm, the excitement of the crew, the easy camaraderie between the crewmembers that they seemed to extend to her almost without thought. After so long a prisoner, she was near to overflowing with goodwill toward these men, her rescuers.

As Abigail paused to read back over what she had written, her mood dropped, like the wind going out of the sails that morning. She'd rambled on with little self-censure, but reading back she could imagine what her friends in London would have to say about this. _It is easy to see how Lady Hamilton might be won over by such men._ Abigail herself had been with Captain Flint’s crew for barely twenty-four hours, and already she found herself writing of them in the most glowing terms, as though they were amusing new acquaintances she had met at a ball in London; what changes might be wrought in near a decade in their company? For a few hours, she had allowed herself to forget that these men were pirates, no different in the eyes of the law than the men of the _Nemo_.

And not so different in other respects, as well, she reminded herself. She chilled with the memory of how casually and efficiently Billy had dispatched the fish she had help catch. Just because he'd smiled at her and touched her foot which such care did not diminish that other side of him. He'd been less cruel than the _Nemo_ crew, _to her_.

She shuddered at the thought of the other crew. Her treatment could not be more different between the two — but at the same time, she knew it was not unreasonable to think that Captain Flint might have ordered his men to be on their best behavior. One look from the Captain had ended the distant attentions of the man at breakfast, and though she had been grateful for it at the time, she wondered now at the power of a man who commanded that kind of respect from this many hardened criminals. He may have been Lieutenant McGraw in his previous life, may have commanded respect from Naval men in a similar fashion, but there was no question that here and now, he was Captain Flint, whose deeds were notorious and cruel enough that his name was known even in London.

Abigail remembered then one particular event that her father had written of in one of his letters: that of the attack on the _Maria Aleyne_ , and the murder of Lord Alfred Hamilton at the hands of Captain Flint and his crew, and she wondered anew at Lady Hamilton’s place in all of this. That a woman such as Lady Hamilton could maintain a friendship with the murderer of her father-in-law strained credulity, even after so many years widowed.

But perhaps it had not been a friendship maintained, but rather one rekindled in the time since Lady Hamilton had left London. It struck Abigail suddenly that perhaps Captain Flint had rescued Lady Hamilton from dire circumstances as well, had perhaps heard that the widow of his friend had been captured and rescued her, as he had rescued Abigail. She could see how Captain Flint, if he made the effort, might be a charming man, and how prolonged containment on a ship in the presence of such efforts might make even a woman still grieving for her husband receptive to the attentions of one who was at once so like and so unlike everything she had left behind in London.

Perhaps Captain Flint had charmed Lady Hamilton, won her over.

Abigail closed her journal and returned the quill to its proper place, then retired behind the sailcloth curtain to prepare for bed, and clamoured into her hanging cot with her mind full of such thoughts, of daring rescues at sea, of ladies beguiled by pirates, and of Billy’s large tan hand wrapped so carefully around her ankle.

 

* * *

 

When eight-bells sounded to mark the change of the morning watch, Billy was unsurprised to see Miss Ashe trailing behind Flint as he made his way up from the mess. He caught her eye and smiled, but kept his attention on the Captain as he relayed the necessarily information from the morning watch. Flint nodded that he was satisfied with the handover and had taken control, and Billy looked around at his watch members and made the gesture that had come to stand for ' _All right gents, we've been relieved_ '.

Miss Ashe had followed the Captain to the quarterdeck, and drifted closer to where Billy was standing as the rest of his watch thundered down the ladder to the mess.

"Your dress should be dry, if you’d like to go take a look," he said to her when they’d gone.

He’d had Dirk string the soaking dress up in the mizzen mast rigging after hauling it back on board yesterday, and it greeted them when they walked towards it now, fluttering cheerfully in the breeze — fluttering perhaps a bit more than a dress ought to in places, to Billy’s unpracticed eye. He climbed a few paces up on the inside of the ratlines, untying the line holding the dress, and caught it before it touched the deck. He slung it over his shoulder and climbed down to where he could jump down to deck, lightly landing beside Miss Ashe. When she didn't reach for it, he pulled the line from the dress and held it out for her to see.

"Well, it’s a little worse for wear," he said, examining it with her.

"And yet still a vast improvement," Miss Ashe responded wryly, fingering one of the frayed edges of the bodice where Billy assumed a seam must have been. "I think it can be mended, though." She raised her gaze from the dress to his own, brown eyes warm in the morning sunlight. "Perhaps by the dressmaker in Nassau."

He folded the dress carefully a few times and handed her the resulting bundle. "How’s your Spanish? Because I think we’re going to have to find you a dressmaker in Tortuga," he said, grinning at her.

"Oh, hush," she replied, looking like she was trying not to smile, and not quite managing.

"I better," he gestured vaguely toward the hatch that lead down to the mess deck, "before the food is all gone."

"I do believe the Captain mentioned something about the morning watch and a plague of locusts," she replied, smile tugging at the corners of her mouth again, and with a nod of thanks towards the dress, she turned and made her way in the direction the salon, leaving Billy to stare after her for a moment before finally heading down to what was left of breakfast.

 

Miss Ashe had returned to the quarterdeck by the time Billy came up on deck after eating, and when she turned to look at him and smiled, he made his way across the deck to greet her. She asked to borrow one of the sailmaker's needles, and thinking she was intending to mend her dress, he offered thread and the other supplies one might need to mend clothing. She politely refused everything but the needle, and as Billy went to fetch one from the Bosun stores, he had to admit to some curiosity as to what she meant to use it for.

After he delivered the needle to her, he found himself some busy work on deck in an area where he could keep an eye on her without it being too glaringly obvious to the Captain, hoping to satisfying his curiosity. He got his answer when Miss Ashe settled down in a sheltered spot on deck and pulled forward a section of her hair. She made a face at how tangled it was, and carefully began to pick at the very bottom of the knotted mass with the needle.

Her hair had been in a badly neglected state when he'd first seen her on the _Nemo_ , and though she had washed it since, she'd clearly not managed to get the tangles out. Perhaps it was something she was used to having assistance with? Surely somebody of her position would have had a lady's maid to help with things like this. Lacking that, even just a comb would help, he supposed.

One time when he was crossing through crew camps on the beach, he'd caught a glimpse of Jack Rackham and Anne Bonny sitting together, her back to him, her head tipped back onto Jack's knee and her eyes drifted shut. Jack had been working a comb through her long hair, humming softly to himself as if he did not object to the task in the slightest.

It had looked… nice.

Billy had trailed his fingers through the hair of the brothel's girls a few times, but it had been something they allowed him a little warily, as if they'd been unsure if he was about to grab hold and yank. It had been nothing like the mutual peaceful indulgence it had seemed to be for Rackham and Bonny.

Billy's hands continued the splice he was working on while he imagined what it might be like to help Miss Ashe with her hair. To sit behind her and take his time carefully picking apart the tangles from the bottom up, to finally let a comb glide all the way through. It would take time, certainly now, but it seemed like it might be a satisfying thing to do, pleasant even, with her sitting calmly in front of him, maybe leaning against his legs. Perhaps they'd be talking, or perhaps simply be quiet and comfortable with each other, her shoulders relaxing.

He imagined that eventually she'd tip back her head, face turned up to the sky, eyes drifting shut peacefully. He might be tempted to extend the task beyond what was strictly necessary, spend some time trailing his fingers through the now smoothed tresses. Enjoying the way it made her smile up at him, hum in peaceful pleasure.  

His mind presented another context where she might hum in pleasure, where he might dig his fingers into her hair — here she was standing, facing him, leaning in close, and he slid his hand from the cap of her shoulder to her nape, making her shiver. He spread his fingers and slid them up along her scalp, into her dark hair, gathering her to him. He used his other hand in the small of her back to crush her body against his, and leaned down to press his nose to the spot just behind her ear, taking a deep breath of her. She shivered, and he rumbled his satisfaction with having her like this, trembling with anticipation in his arms. His for the taking, and freely offered, a small, shaky sigh escaping her as he grazed his teeth from her neck toward her lips—

The ship's bell jolted him out of his fantasy, and he tried not to grimace openly at just how inappropriate that had been, how far out of line to think of a lady such as Miss Ashe like this. Not only was she so far from somebody who might consider a pirate for any sort of… _anything_ , whoever someday had the honour of wedding her better not even consider touching her with anything but the greatest care and gentleness. She certainly deserved it, not only because of her recent ordeal but because of who she was herself.

The memories of his parents were foggy, distant, but he remembered his mother smiling at his father, the way they'd moved around each other in the cramped kitchen of their little house. The discussions about what ought to be in pamphlets, both taking the other's opinions into account. A real fondness between them he could remember deciding he wanted for himself. It’d been years since he thought it was any sort of real possibility for him, but he wanted that for her, he realised, wanted Miss Ashe to marry a man who would look at her in open adoration the way his father had gazed at his mother, over breakfast tables and printing presses.

And whoever that man in Miss Ashe’s future was, Billy knew he wouldn’t be a pirate. He angled himself away from the woman on the other side of the deck and stabbed his marlinspike into the next space of the rope lay, forcing his attention back to his task.

 

* * *

 

On the _Good Fortune_ , Abigail had had needlework to spend her time on. If engaged by a design, embroidery was a pleasant way to keep her hands busy and her mind occupied. It had also provided a distraction while on deck; the sailors seemed more at ease when she was focused on something rather than openly observing them.

She had nothing like that on hand now, and preferred to keep her journal in the salon. After struggling for an hour or two to detangle her hair with the needle, frustration had convinced her to tackle that particular task a little at a time, and she once again found herself without something to keep herself busy. The Captain had offered Abigail the use of his bookcase, but she'd quickly discovered that the books were all in Spanish. Eager to have the distraction, she picked Don Quixote anyway. She'd previously read the translation into English; perhaps her knowledge of the story and her fluency in French would help her understand something of the unfamiliar language.

She'd found an out of the way spot in the shade, not far from the helmsman, and settled in with the book. It took more concentration than expected, and she had lost track of how long she had been reading when she startled from sudden raised voices. Down in the welldeck were two of the men arguing, faces red, hands grasping at the other's shirt. Working up to a real fight, from the looks of it. Men gathered around them, cheering them on.

The ship suddenly felt like a powder magazine, and Abigail wished she was in the salon. Ideally of another ship, far away.

Mr. De Groot stomped down the steps of the quarterdeck to look down on the quarreling men. " _Oi!_ Enough of that!" he yelled.

Perhaps drawn by the shouting, more men came up on deck, Billy among them. He took one look around and clapped his hands. Abigail observed with interest how he seemed to immediately become the center of attention.  

"All right, with spirits this high, looks like it's time for a bit of exercise!" he called, voice carrying easily. "My watch against the Captain's watch, the winners go against the duty watch."

Abigail observed unseen as the men set up a thick rope to run through a block attached to the foremast, so that there could be a rope-pulling competition in the limited space of the ship, both parties at an angle next to each other, forming a V across the deck. The aggression in the air seemed to dissipate into a sense of anticipation, still loud and coarse and startling to Abigail's ears and eyes, but less unnerving.

Much to her surprise the Captain had come out too, his shirtsleeves rolled up, looking ready to join in. He and Billy organised their watches onto the rope. Without any sort of discussion between the watchkeepers Mr. De Groot stepped in to be the referee for this match, and Abigail wondered how often this was done. It seemed to make sense to have the men do regular exercise, especially when the sailing was light work. It kept them fit and, she suspected, in better spirits than when frustrations were given time and excess energy to fester.

Shirts came off, and Abigail instinctively looked away, endless sermons about sin and the rightful conduct of a young lady resounding in her mind. She could not stop herself from glancing back, though, some devil whispering to her that it could hardly matter after a month without chaperone amidst pirates.

The sudden amount of skin in front of her was beyond indecent. She'd never seen a man so unclothed, let alone so many. She had seen statues, of course, but this was a lot more… _more_. She kept looking away and then finding herself drawn back to the sight of the various men, their different statures, their skin colours ranging from tanned-freckled to deep dark brown. Their scars particularly drew her interest. Many had paler lines and knots speaking of old injuries, and some had what she had to conclude were lashing marks on their backs. Joshua, one of the two who had first found her aboard the _Nemo_ , had fascinating patterns of dots and lines all across his shoulders and stomach, something hinting at a very different life before he'd been brought to the New World.

She almost jumped when with a roar from Mr. De Groot the match was off, and Billy and the Captain bellowed their "TWO-SIX!" to the answering "HEAVE!" from their watches. Every man from the duty watch who wasn't on the helm or on lookout had come forward to watch, and there was a great deal of noise both from the battling watches and the spectators.

At one point the Captain's watch seemed to be drawn toward the block, and the Captain himself jumped in with a sharp flash of a grin toward Billy. The other team roared indignantly and then Billy also joined in. Abigail watched as the teams threw themselves into the match with new energy and noise, and a few tense minutes later Billy's watch finally won with a great shout of victory.

There was a break where some of the men drew up buckets of seawater from over the side to cool themselves down, and Abigail felt her cheeks flame when noticing that Billy had now also removed his shirt, muscles of his back in sharp relief under his tanned skin, glistening with drops of sweat, or perhaps the seawater he'd doused himself with. The water had run down his torso and made the fabric of his trousers cling to him—

She made a small squeaking sound and hid behind her book, grateful that he was at least facing away from her. Perhaps it was possible to blush hard enough to spontaneously combust? That might come as a relief. Possibly it was preferable over ever facing Billy again after this. She'd surely never be able to speak another word to him without going scarlet.

Did Lady Hamilton also witness something like this? Was this how pirates got a Lady such as her to their side and kept her bound to them, by corrupting her, making her unfit for polite society, even if not in body, then certainly in mind? If she herself witnessed these sorts of displays more than once, would she give in to the sinfulness of it, give up on any ladylike restraint, become so brazen as to watch the men openly? Even now she found herself tempted to look up from her book for another glimpse. Abigail already couldn't imagine ever facing a priest again, so if this was a deliberate strategy, it was certainly working.

She did look up when there were calls for somebody to take over the lookout, so the duty watch could take up the challenge Billy's watch had laid out for them, and she was startled to see the Captain come up the steps toward the quarterdeck, also shirtless. He was a well-built man, not in the same way Billy was, but solid across the chest and shoulders, the body of an active man. Her gaze however caught on the scarring on him, the knots and ridges of what had to have been multiple serious wounds. His eyes met hers, and she drew a startled breath, caught staring in the most unladylike manner imaginable.

Captain Flint drew his loose shirt back on as he approached, eyes cutting from her to De Groot, clapping the man on the back with a grin as he went down to the welldeck to support his watch.  

Abigail debated with herself if continuing to watch the rope-pulling match would be any more sinful or unladylike than how she'd behaved so far. Probably. It was just… very hard to ignore what was going on and pretend she was reading a book in a language she didn't speak.

Silver the cook had come up to take over the helm, and the Captain spent a few minutes talking to him. Then, to her mortification, he came over to where she was sitting.

"Are you well, Miss Ashe?" he asked, and if she hadn't been awash with consternation she might have sworn that there was amusement in his voice, something of a teasing tone. Because despite her position in the shade, he said, "You seem to have caught the sun a touch."

She glanced up at him just long enough to satisfy politeness, distantly noting that the shirt she was grateful he'd put on gaped open at the collar, still allowing far more of his throat and chest bare than what polite society might consider within sighting distance of proper. How her standards had already changed! She quickly cast her eyes down onto her book.

"I am fine, sir. Merely warm."

The Captain seemed to notice the book she was holding. "Don Quixote," he said, nodding to it. "How do you like it in the original Spanish?"

"I know it well enough in English that I can follow along in places, but I’m afraid I don’t speak any Spanish at all," she admitted.

The look Flint directed her way then might even be called fond. "Perhaps you should learn," he said, smiling slightly before diverting his gaze back toward the activity in front of them. "There’s a Spanish-English dictionary on the lowest shelf of the bookshelf, I believe," he said, and taking it as the offer of a graceful exit she believed he meant it to be, she murmured her thanks and beat a hasty retreat to the salon.

Abigail was decidedly flustered as she entered the salon, grateful to be alone at least. She washed her face with cool water, very aware that her cheeks were still glowing in a way that had nothing to do with the sun. She'd intended to get the dictionary the Captain had referenced and make a proper study of Don Quixote, but instead found herself curling up in her hanging cot, staring at the same page in the book, before finally drifting off.

She woke at eight-bells, coming awake with a gasp, disoriented and strangely surprised to find herself alone. Her body was warm and somehow restless, and she realised that she'd dreamed, but not in the frightening way she sometimes did. No, this had been… oh. This had been—

Closing her eyes, she saw the image again. Billy standing in front of her, stripped to the waist, waiting patiently and with something of amusement as she looked her fill. In her dream there was no shame, no hesitation, and she allowed her eyes to roam the planes and angles of his body, the width of his shoulders, the corded muscle in his forearms, the sparse blonde hair below his belly button.

In the dream her fingers twitched, restless, eager to touch, and then he'd taken her hand, engulfing hers in his much larger one, and laid it against his chest, over his heart. Inviting her.

Abigail's own heart pounded at the dream-memory of touching him, his warm tanned skin, his body still flushed and damp from the exertion of the rope-pulling. His heart had been pounding too, and the realisation he'd been just as affected by the moment as she was ran a delicious shiver up her spine. Lying in her cot, she took a few deep breaths and savoured the dream for a long minute, before folding it up and hiding it away.

It was sinful to think of such things, to dream of them, but it seemed like there was no way to be on this ship, amidst these men, and not commit sins of some type. There was little to be done about it in her current circumstances, but hopefully once she'd returned to her father she could work on redeeming her soul, washing all these unfamiliar feelings from herself like she'd wash the salt of the sea from her skin.

In the meantime, how she would ever face Billy again she did not know, but she supposed that it was unavoidable, on a ship such as this, and who knew how many more days aboard.

Abigail thought again of how Lady Hamilton could possibly have become acquainted with pirates, and with Captain Flint in particular. In Abigail’s previous considerations she had been focused on the kindness shown to her by Flint’s crew thus far, and by the Captain himself. It was hard to deny she'd felt a thrill at being allowed to steer the ship, at being thought worth the effort of teaching; at being, it seemed, regarded as a person rather than a package for delivery. Her tutors had been great proponents of the education of young ladies, and it had been a shocking pleasure to find a similar attitude aboard Flint’s ship, rather than being dismissed as incapable.

But there were other, different images in her mind now too. Images that brought with them vague but flustering sensations, too wicked to be enjoyed but too intriguing to be completely banished.

Where yesterday her mind had been full of gentlemen pirates rescuing ladies from dire circumstances, now she was forced to consider what other kinds of _seductions_ men such as these might offer to a lady already charmed by genuine courtesy and a hint of manners. What effect might prolonged exposure to such men, with their kindness on the one hand and their sinful behavior on the other, have on a well-bred lady? And if this was how Lady Hamilton had become so close with Captain Flint, did Abigail need to worry as to his intentions regarding _her_ and her interactions with his crew? Should she worry that he was encouraging her growing friendship with his Quartermaster?

Abigail rose from her cot and splashed more cool water on her face before drifting towards one of the windowseats just outside her partition. Captain Flint had said he meant to make an ally of her father, and what better way than by making a friend of his only child? But if the Captain had been friends with her parents in London, surely he did not need Abigail’s good opinion to make her father an ally. If the woman who had sealed her letter to Abigail with the Hamilton’s unmistakeable crest was indeed Lady Hamilton, surely Abigail’s father would spare the time to read a letter from the widow of a dear friend.

And yet Billy seemed to think it unlikely that they would sail for Charles Town, had said it would be courting death to even enter the harbor there — and indeed, Captain Flint had not said a word to Abigail about returning her to her father. That realisation chilled her more than any other, and she curled into the afternoon sunlight filtering in through the window as she thought back over their previous conversations. She had believed Captain Flint when he said that he wanted her father for his ally. The next time they had spoken, Flint had said that they were headed to Nassau, confirming what Billy had told her, and added that they would meet Lady Hamilton there. But he hadn’t given her any indication of what would happen after that. Abigail hadn’t thought to ask.

The idea gnawed at her. If Captain Flint meant to gain her father’s favour, surely he would have to escort her to Charles Town eventually? If Lady Hamilton was truly the dear friend of her mother’s that Abigail remembered, she would see to it that Abigail was returned to her father, wouldn’t she? Flint had said he wouldn’t ask her father to pay for her, but money was far from the only source of power, Abigail knew. In London she had been forced more than once to dodge the attentions of a young Lord who thought to court her only as a means of securing her father’s political backing. As distasteful as she’d found it, it had made some sort of sense in London, in the political heart of the Empire. What could Captain Flint hope to gain by her father’s political support?

Abigail startled at the noise of the doorknob turning on the far side of the salon, and she turned towards the door, tensing. She watched the door open by a fraction, and she could hear Captain Flint’s voice just outside, as though he was conversing on the threshold, paused in the act of opening the door.

"Tell Mr. De Groot we’ll speak of it when he takes over for me at midnight," Flint was saying, voice directed away from the partially opened door, and Abigail took the moment to compose herself, to turn on the windowseat and sit up straight, and try to pretend she hadn’t just been mulling over the intentions of the man in the doorway.

"Thank you, Joji," the Captain added, and half a moment later the door swung open, with just enough of a lag that Abigail fleetingly wondered if it might have been for her benefit, her comfort and warning.

But the moment passed, and Flint entered, meeting her gaze as he did.

"Are you well, Miss Ashe?" he asked as he closed the door, his voice more gruffly concerned than it had been when he’d asked earlier.

She swallowed past the tightness in her throat and nodded. "Yes, sir," she managed after a second.

He glanced at her as he crossed to the chart table beside the bookshelf on the far wall. "Speak plainly, please, Miss Ashe," he said, the words directed primarily down at the table in front of him, "and I will answer you as plainly as I can. You needn’t fear the effect of your words with me."

Abigail still hesitated a moment, unsure if she could bring herself to ask. "It is only," she started, then paused to take a better breath. "I wondered when you expect us to reach Nassau?" she finally settled on.

Flint chuckled, seeming nearly as surprised by the sound as she was. "You and the crew both," he said, turning towards her with a chart in hand and crossing to the desk in the middle of the room. He laid it out on the desk and then turned the high-backed chair to angle towards her perch on the windowseat. "We’ll make landfall tomorrow, unless we lose the wind overnight," he said as he sat and crossed his ankle over his knee, looking relaxed.

Abigail nodded, her back still straight. "I see."

"And?" the Captain prompted.

Her heart was beating out a wild, irregular rhythm, and she took a breath to try to calm it. "And… I wondered what will happen to me after that?"

"I intend to see you safely home to your father," Captain Flint replied, a slight edge to his voice, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. When she only nodded in answer, he said, more gently, "What’s troubling you, Miss Ashe?"

She hesitated another moment, but finally her need to know overpowered her fear of his response. "You said, sir, that you wish to make an ally of my father," Abigail said, darting her gaze to Flint’s and away. "But your Quartermaster, Billy, said that pirates only go to Charles Town if they have a death-wish. If my father is so well known as a man without tolerance for piracy, how do you plan to make an ally of him? How would you even go about approaching him?"

Captain Flint leaned back in his chair, considering her, some of the confused scowl clearing from his face. "I had hoped you might be willing to write to him on my behalf," he said. "I believe that if he and I were to meet and come to common purpose, there is much good we could do in the Bahamas."

"So it is a political alliance you wish to form?"

"In a manner of speaking," he replied, pausing for thought as though considering how much to tell her. "How well do you remember Thomas Hamilton?" Flint asked finally.

She thought a moment, calling to mind the hazy memory of the man’s face. "Well enough I suppose, though I was young when he died. My parents were close with Lord and Lady Hamilton, I called him Uncle Thomas when I was very small," she said, smiling sadly at the memory.

The Captain looked as if he might be remembering similar moments, a deep sadness on his face for a few seconds before he wiped it free of expression. "Thomas and I, your father and a few other people, we were working toward a way to reconcile the pirates of Nassau with England, to turn New Providence Island into a self-sufficient colony. We intended to offer the pirates the King’s pardon, absolve them of past piracy and give them a way to live as free men, to live legitimately in the eyes of England."

Abigail remembered her father spending increasing amounts of time with Lord Hamilton in the months leading up to his death, but he had never spoken of political plans of any sort in front of her. "What happened?" she asked.

Flint sighed. "It all fell apart when Thomas died. Our whole _lives_ fell apart. But for the first time in a decade, I feel that this plan, _Thomas’s_ plan, could truly be achievable. That is why I want to meet with your father, to see if it just might be possible to do now what we were unable to do then."

"And if he agreed to join with you, if you were able to secure pardons from the King, do you think the pirates of Nassau would be open to such an idea?" she asked, thinking through the ramifications of such a plan.

"I believe I hold enough influence with enough of Nassau’s crews to make it worth England’s effort," he replied.

"Is that why you came to Nassau after you left London?" she asked, and instantly wished she hadn’t, a chill rushing over her.

But the Captain simply inclined his head once, his expression unreadable. "In part," he said, but didn’t elaborate.

"What would you want me to write?" Abigail asked after taking a moment to regain her breath.

"Well, your own thoughts, first and foremost," he replied, his tone easier. "But if your father and I are to have any chance of meeting, he must have a clearer understanding of who I am, of who the men of Nassau _truly_ are. If you write to your father of your experiences here on the _Revenge_ and my renewed interest in Thomas Hamilton’s plans, it is my hope that he will be persuaded to at least meet with me in good faith."

She blinked, at a loss for a moment. "You would trust me with that, sir?" she asked, raising her eyes to his.

"I can think of no one better suited to the job," he replied, his voice pragmatic, "no one whose opinion your father might trust more."

It was possible Captain Flint was giving her father too much credit, but she knew voicing that thought couldn’t possibly gain her anything, so she swallowed past it and instead asked, "How long would such a letter take to reach him? I know little of transit times in the New World, but I learned to expect a delay of months in my father’s letters to me in London."

"It’s not quick, I’ll grant you," he replied. "Nothing like the immediacy of mail in London, but not months, thankfully. From Nassau to Charles Town is about four days on the prevailing winds, and a reply would likely be six days in transit, providing the wind didn't back south-east and force the ship to beat into the wind the whole way back, in which case it could take a fortnight, maybe more."

"So anywhere from ten days to three weeks to receive a reply from my father, once I’ve written the letter?" At his nod, she asked, "And while we await his reply?"

"I think it would be prudent if you stayed aboard," he said, "and if we kept your presence on board as quiet as we can. To that end, I’ll see if we can find you a kerchief to cover your hair, to disguise you better from a distance."

She looked down at herself, at her borrowed clothing and bare feet. "I find it hard to believe anyone would recognise me as I am now, but I would appreciate the kerchief, thank you, Captain," she said. "And… might I see Lady Hamilton in that time?"

The Captain smiled a little crookedly at that. "I believe we would have a difficult time _preventing_ her from visiting you during that time," he said, sounding amused and fond. "She has a homestead to see to, I don’t believe she’ll be able to stay aboard for very long at a stretch, but I think we can expect at least a few visits while we’re at anchor."

"I would like that very much," Abigail said, nodding. "And if you provide me paper, sir, I will begin on a letter to my father. The sooner it can be sent following our arrival in Nassau the better for all of us, I think. But I’ll let you return to your charts, as we are all so very anxious to find out when that arrival might be," she said, smiling a little as well, before standing and turning for her partitioned corner.

"The, ah, dictionary," he said to halt her, standing as well and going to the bookshelf to fetch it for her. "You never know when it might be useful," he added, handing it to her.

"Have you read Don Quixote in the original Spanish, then, Captain?" she asked, accepting the heavy tome from him.

"One of the reasons I learned Spanish," he said, "though you’ll find that Miranda’s is still vastly superior to mine."

"And has it proven useful?" Abigail asked, taking note of the easy, familiar way he used Lady Hamilton's given name.

"Indeed it has," he said, shooting her an amused look, before turning his attention back to the chart on the desk, and Abigail retired to her partitioned corner, dictionary in hand.

 

 _Tortuga_ , Abigail found, meant _turtle_.


	5. V

When Billy was woken for morning watch with a prod in the shoulder and a low-voiced, "Seven bells", he could feel that the wind had picked up even before his feet hit the deck. The ship was heeling lightly and no longer felt like it was bobbing on the waves like a cork. Instead there was the gentle rush of water streaming past the hull.

When he came on deck in the darkness of predawn, he noted that the wind had indeed freshened overnight, and that Mr. De Groot had taken in the stunsails accordingly. On handover he learned that they'd been making a steady three and a half knots of progress over the course of the Middle watch.

"Might make it home by mid-day at this pace," De Groot said, uncovering the red lantern they kept on the quarterdeck to show Billy the chart and the projected course into Nassau. "Of course, if the wind backs much further we'll have to wear ship sooner than planned to make it 'round the shallows. Be sure to ease the stunsail lines if you do wear her."

"I'll remember."

De Groot gave him a look by the low light of the lantern, and then nodded.

"Aye, you were always careful with the _Walrus_ , that's true." _Unlike some_ , was the unspoken part of that sentence. As the Sailing Master it was De Groot's role to advocate for the ship itself, to make sure the risks the Captain wanted to take didn't break the rig or risk the ship overmuch. That often put him in opposition of the Captain. Not the most thankful role the crew had to offer; it was easy to take a ship for granted while you had it.

Billy nodded in agreement, and the Middle watch went below for the second half of their sleep.

The Morning watch was Billy's favourite; seeing the dawn begin, the peace and cool of early morning, the calm of the still-sleeping ship. Sailing as sweetly as they were now, he had plenty of time to let his thoughts drift.

He wondered what the plan was concerning Miss Ashe from here on. The Captain had mentioned in passing that he intended to send a letter to Charles Town rather than risk trying to enter the harbour uninvited. Was she going ashore to await the answer? That didn't seem safe to him, with other crews all too keen to kidnap her if they found out who she was. Then again, staying aboard any longer might be the last thing she wanted.

He realised he hadn't seen her since yesterday's morning watch, when she'd been working on her hair. No, wait, he had caught a glimpse of her in passing at some point during the rope pulling competition. She'd just been heading into the salon, and he'd supposed it had gotten too boisterous on deck for her.

Or— ah.

It was nothing to the crew to take off shirts; privacy and modesty weren't exactly concepts any of them were well acquainted with, or which were much use on a ship. But it might have been shocking to Miss Ashe; he imagined she would not be used to seeing such things.

She hadn't come on deck for his dogswatch, and he was surprised to note that in a few short days he'd come to think of that as a habit, something he perhaps even looked forward to. He enjoyed her company. Was she offended by what she'd seen?

Or perhaps it had nothing to do with the rope pulling, perhaps she'd noticed him watching her while she'd been working on her hair. He grimaced at that thought, hoping she hadn't somehow read his indecent thoughts from his face and been made uncomfortable by them, and by him.

He was well aware he was no gentleman, had none of the refined manners she would be used to from men in her own social circle, but he'd hoped to at least behave in such a way that she felt safe in his presence. If his stupid lapse in thought — if his staring at her — had made her feel unsafe, preyed upon, he wasn't sure how to remedy that. If he even could.

He found himself frowning at the lightening horizon.

Five bells into the Morning watch the breeze petered out, and Billy set the stunsails again, mentally adjusting the time estimates along the planned course. Late afternoon at this rate, at best. Ah well. He supposed there was no deadline on their arrival apart from the impatience of the crew.

Halfway to six-bells he heard the door of the aft salon, and assuming the Captain had woken before his call, turned to the steps. Instead it was Miss Ashe carefully making her way up the ladder, and his spirits rose with the thought that she wasn't avoiding him. Their eyes met, and she halted in her tracks, as if suddenly uncertain.

 

* * *

 

Abigail had woken earlier than usual, and knowing Billy's watch to be on the bridge, dressed and gone up on deck to see the sunrise. The light was hazy and beautiful, the sun just barely glimpsing over the horizon.

Climbing the steps to the quarterdeck she caught sight of him just as he turned toward her, and she trailed to a halt, the image of him yesterday — the memory of him in her dream — suddenly returning to her. She felt her cheeks glow all over again, and almost turned around to go back inside, to hide in her cot.

But no, she could not hide from him forever, and in truth, she did not want to. She just needed to get this moment out of the way, and then hopefully they could return to their previous easy manner. She wouldn't want to deny herself that because of her own sinful thoughts.

And hopefully it was still dark enough that he couldn't see her blush.

"Good morning, Miss Ashe," he greeted her as she came onto the quarterdeck.

She gave him a small smile, relieved that he did not seem aware of her consternation. She'd been half afraid he would be able to read it on her face as if she were a book.

"A good morning to you, sir."

"Did you sleep well? You seem up early," he asked politely.

"I retired early last night, so when I heard your men set sail earlier, it seemed like I had slept enough."

He nodded. "The wind dropped again, unfortunately, so we reset the stuns'ls."

"Is it very much further to Nassau?"

"Oh no," he smiled at her, and she felt a curious sensation in her chest, an urge to simultaneously be closer to him and very far away. "I expect to see land in the next few hours."

"I am excited to see it," Abigail said. "I haven't seen any land at all since leaving England behind, it is so strange to think how long I've been at sea. Even though I don't expect I'll go ashore there, even seeing the town from a distance will be a novelty."

"Do you think you'll stay on board while we're at anchor, then?"

"The Captain says it is for the best," she nodded. "Having heard the men speak of Nassau, I think I agree."

"Ah, but it also has some very nice things to it," he said, sounding perhaps a little wistful. It intrigued her immediately. He'd referred to Nassau as 'home' before. What did a man like him long for while he was away at sea? Apart from the obvious answer of ' _the girls_ ' she'd been hearing the men talk about, which he likely wasn't above. She shied away from the thought, both images from her dream and emotions she could not name rising unbidden at the idea.

"Please tell me about the nice things of Nassau!" she said by way of distracting herself. "I should like to see it through your eyes, at least."

"Well, there's…" He hesitated, and she wondered what elements of the place he was mentally discarding as unsuitable for her to hear about. "The town is nice," he finally said. "Doesn't look like any English town I've ever seen, though. There's palm trees and vines and Spanish moss, all the buildings are painted bright colors, with wooden shutters to let in the breeze but keep out the hurricanes. There are the shops I told you about, and places that sell unique items taken from prizes, weapons, clothes, jewelry, all sorts of things. There's also a tavern, probably the best place for warm food if you aren't keen on your own cookfire. They even get fresh vegetables from the interior. It's run by a woman named Eleanor Guthrie, actually — and if you were to go ashore, she'd be one to meet! She's just a few years older than you, and she runs half the town."

Abigail gave him a surprised look. A woman was in a place of power in Nassau? The New World continued to astound her.

"But the part I like best," he went on, smiling to himself slightly, "a lot of the crews camp on the beach when their ship is in the bay, building cloth tents for privacy, or sleeping out in the open sometimes. At night there are campfires, and lanterns in the tents that shine through the colours of the fabric. And when you walk toward the beach, you hear the music and the chatter long before you get there. All of it lit by bonfires everywhere you look, and everyone cooking and drinking and in a good mood. Just, cheerful and cozy. Always one of my favorite parts of being ashore here."

Abigail tried to imagine it, a beach encampment of canvas tents and colorful silks, illuminated by firelight and candlelight, the smells of cooking and stolen spices, the sounds of random bursts of song — probably drunk and atonal, if the singing talents of most of the men aboard was anything to go by. She grinned at the thought.

"It sounds kind of magical," she said, smiling up at him in the early morning light.

"When you're tired and you're walking through the camps to find your brothers, to sit down with them at the fire — it kind of is," he said, a little wistful.

She smiled again at the sentiment, and the easy way he called his crewmates _brothers_.

"I would have thought that after so much time in their company, you might want to get away from the rest of the crew while ashore," she said carefully.

"Oh, sometimes I do," he chuckled. "But it is nice to belong. And even when your brothers are loud argumentative idiots—" the helmsman, Driscoll, was not far from where they were standing, and he cleared his throat meaningfully. Billy grinned, "—they are still your brothers, and you watch each other's backs."

It reminded her, in a strange way, of the circle of women she had been adopted into in London when her father went to the colonies and she went to stay with Lord and Lady Chudleigh as their ward.

Lady Chudleigh had employed her friend Mistress Astell as Abigail's tutor, and together they had introduced her to a close-knit group of her late mother's friends. Among the ladies of that group the term _sister_ had frequently been used, even though Abigail had been more of an age to be a daughter to most of them. She missed them with a deep sort of ache, but there was something in the way that Billy talked of his brothers that she found herself craving as well — to be equal in such a group more than the beneficiary of it. Something she had chosen, crafted for herself.

Marriage, she supposed, would bring that, with the opportunity to run her own household. There had been men in London she might have married, if she had been able to stand their company and the idea of a political match. She had expected things would be different in the colonies, would offer more opportunities to define her own role, build her household from scratch. To build a family that would be hers, that she belonged to and which belonged to her.

It was strange to think about, now, the things she had hoped for when she set out from London. She hardly felt like the same person any longer. She still wanted those things, still craved a life she created for herself, but the image she had built of life in Charles Town seemed like a distant dream, half-forgotten.

She felt a touch, and found Billy's work-roughened fingertips tracing the back of her hand, just for a brief moment before he moved away again.

"Are you well? You seem... " he hesitated. "More sad than my story seemed to warrant."

Abigail shook herself slightly. "My apologies. I was just thinking on… on the nature of belonging, the family I left behind in London and the one I had hoped to build in Charles Town."

"Had hoped to?" he asked, catching her use of the past tense.

She looked out towards the sunrise, and the long stretch of ocean beneath it. "It is so strange, but after everything — they feel like the plans of someone else, now. The Captain has promised to see me safely to Charles Town, and so I know those things are once again in my future, and yet it feels… distant, somehow."

"Yeah, 'the plans of someone else,' that sounds about right," he said.

She hadn't expected him to empathise with her so completely, and she looked up at him curiously.

"I, ah." He ran one hand over his short hair, looking away. "About two months back, I was, uh… a _guest_ of the Royal English Navy for about a fortnight before I got back to Nassau. It felt like that, coming back to Nassau afterwards. Like I'd been away ages, and couldn't remember where I'd left things, what was important to me, the things I was working towards. Like it was somebody else's life."

He wasn't going to say what happened outright, Abigail realised, but she could read between the lines easily enough. A few of the husbands of the women she had known in London had been Naval officers, and every now and then she had heard a comment about flogging included in polite conversation — usually when talking about shipboard discipline and said laughingly. Combined with the lash scars she had seen on so many of the men yesterday, on Billy too, it painted a vivid picture of the cruelty possible even in the backbone of English civilisation.

"And I take it they were not gracious hosts?" she asked, knowing the answer.

"Not hardly."

"I suppose you do understand, then, what it's like." She smiled a little sadly up at him. "A life interrupted."

He watched her closely for a moment, then said, "And actually— I was a 'guest' of the Royal Navy's once before, pressed into service that time, for three years until Flint took the ship. I could have gone back home then, I suppose, but it seemed impossible to... to fold myself back up into the person I'd been then. So I didn't," he shrugged, tension easing from him slightly. "I followed Flint, never looked back."

"And you never saw your family again? Your home?"

"Made a new family, found a new home," he said, nodding in a way that seemed to take in the ship and the sleeping crew and the still-distant island somewhere ahead of them. "It's not a decision I've regretted."

"In some ways you've seen both sides of it, then," she said after a moment, "of what happens after surviving something like that. Picking up your old life versus starting new."

"I don't know that it's a question of going back versus moving forward. Both times, I chose this life, chose my brothers over the alternatives."

"A life of your own making," Abigail said softly.

"Yeah," Billy said, nodding, "exactly that."

 

It was just past seven bells when a call of _Land ho!_ from one of the lookouts aloft drew both their attention, and Abigail followed Billy up to the forecastle, where he accepted a spyglass from one of the men of his watch and trained it out on the seemingly endless ocean in front of them.

"There she is," Billy said smiling. "Not far now."

Abigail scanned the horizon, looking for any indication of the island they were seeking. "I shall have to trust you on this a little while longer," she said, smiling ruefully. "When do you think we'll arrive?"

Lowering the glass, he looked at her for a moment, then handed the spyglass to her; she accepted it carefully with both hands, heavier than she would have thought. "Have a look," he said, leaning down slightly to point over her shoulder as he had at the wheel, and she raised the spyglass in the direction he indicated, conscious of his proximity in a way that made her heart kick, but that she had absolutely no interest in remedying. "Twist it to focus," he added, a soft rumble behind her.

"Oh, _there_ ," she breathed as the little stripe of green came into focus against the endless blue. She felt Billy drop his arm and step back slightly, but she held her position with the spyglass, trying to will her breathing into something like a normal pattern.

"We'll need to skirt west around the island, that will take most of the morning watch, on this wind. Then we'll wear ship, likely after all the watches have had their midday meal, so Mr. De Groot can call All Hands without angering the cooks." He huffed a chuckle, and Abigail smiled too. If she'd learned one thing about sailing it was that nobody inconvenienced the cooks if they could avoid it.

"Final approach on a starboard tack, and we'll probably drop anchor before my next watch at four."

That was longer than Abigail had imagined, but she supposed that before they sighted land, she'd had no real concept of how fast or slow they were approaching it. Now it was within sight she suddenly felt impatient, even though she probably wouldn't be able to even go on land there.

"I should go let the Captain know," Billy said. He nodded at the spyglass. "Hold onto that for me, I’ll be back shortly."

She lowered the glass to nod and smile up at him, and when he had gone, Abigail turned her attention back to the first slice of dry land she had seen since leaving England.

 

* * *

 

Billy found Flint in the mess with the rest of his watch, sitting with his back to the hull with Silver seated opposite him. Silver was leaning across the table as the Captain ate, speaking in a low, quick tone — arguing like an old married couple again, if their twin looks of annoyance were anything to go by.

"Sighted land, Captain," Billy said as he slid onto the bench beside Silver, sitting backwards and turning in with his elbow resting against the table. "Should be home by dogswatch, wind willing."

"And I suppose _you’ll_ be going straight up the hill to see Mrs. Barlow," Silver said to Flint, displeasure clear in his tone.

Flint looked like he we wanted to snap at Silver, but he finished his bowl of food, glancing between them and thinking over his words for a moment. "Miss Ashe knew Mrs. Barlow in London when she was young," he replied in a deliberately even tone. "I have promised the both of them this reunion, so _yes_ , I intend to go fetch Mrs. Barlow and bring her here, for Miss Ashe’s benefit."

"Are you sure that’s wise, Captain?" Billy asked before Silver could make another snide comment. At Flint’s look of bewilderment, Billy continued, "I only mean — there’s plenty of crews on the island who would still see Miss Ashe as a financial commodity, a ransom to be claimed, and might try to kidnap her again. If we want to keep it quiet that she’s here, we should maybe avoid doing anything too out of the ordinary. Mrs. Barlow has never come aboard before, as far as I know she’s never so much as been near the beach before. A lady coming to the beach and getting into a boat is the sort of thing that _will_ get noticed by the wrong person."

"You know he's right," Silver said in a low, warning tone.

Flint made a noise that allowed that there might be some truth to this.

"We could send out the boat for her once it's dark, pick her up somewhere else?" Billy mused.

"No, I've a better idea," Flint decided, looking between them. "You'll take Silver and row ashore as soon as we drop anchor, and bring a message to Mrs. Barlow to meet you at the East Cove tomorrow morning at dawn. Silver can arrange our provisions in the meantime. Stay ashore overnight, pick up Mrs. Barlow at the agreed spot at dawn, and return here."

Silver rolled his eyes dramatically but didn’t argue.

 

In the last hour of the forenoon watch, Flint sent somebody to call both Billy and De Groot on deck. When they arrived, De Groot sleepy-eyed and Billy drying his hands from doing laundry, Flint lead them into the salon.

"We're going to be on anchor in the bay for a least a week, more likely two," he announced without preamble. "And given the risk of attack from other crews while Miss Ashe is still aboard, I'm inclined to keep two watches onboard at all times."

It was silent for a moment as Billy tried to think of a way to convey the inadvisability of this.

"We've been at sea nine days," De Groot rubbed his face. "Two days on, one day off is not going to cut it, we'll lose half our best men to Vane. A fortnight without sight on a prize is a stretch as it is."

"Our first defence obviously needs to be to try to make sure nobody knows she's here," Billy said, thinking it over.

"Agreed, and with the borrowed clothes and something covering her hair, we're a ways toward that," the Captain nodded. "We're not so close to any of the other ships that they could easily see with the naked eye. But the length of time we're going to be here will raise questions, if nothing else. If somebody rows over to take a closer look, I don't want to be caught with a skeleton crew."

"Hmm, but keeping two thirds of the crew aboard might raise questions too," Billy said.

"I've been wanting to get the topsail yards down on deck for a good sanding, get all the blocks cleaned up, replace the footropes on the foremast," De Groot said. "If we're going to be sitting here anyway, this is as good a time as any to get her up to scratch."

"Still, two on one off…" Billy mused. "Going to be a hard sell. Could you work with a watch and a half?"

"Sure, if we've got at least a week here…"

"We could split one of the watches," Billy said to Flint. "Make it a one on, one off rota."

"Then at least we don't have agitated people knocking about the ship for two day stretches, and there'll be plenty for them to do," Flint nodded.

"As long as we do the change-over in the evening," De Groot said. "So they've slept it off by the time I put 'em to work the next day."

"Works with the expected dogswatch anchoring today," Flint agreed. "We can send the first lot ashore with Billy and Silver while the rest stows sail."

"Now might be a good time to remind the crew about the importance of keeping our guest a secret," Billy said. "Won't matter how good a job we do making things look normal if someone goes and blabs it on the beach or to one of Max's girls."

Flint nodded but said, "Max I'm less worried about. I've asked Mr. Silver to take a message to her updating her on our success, but when we purchased the information on the location of the _Nemo_ from her, that came with the assurances that she would keep our secret while we're at anchor. Still, it's worth reminding the men that it's in their best interests to keep Miss Ashe's presence a secret. Speak to your watches."

Billy and De Groot shared a brief look that Flint seemed oblivious to but Billy was able to read perfectly well: De Groot still wasn't any more sold on Flint's plan now than he had been two weeks ago, but at this point there was little to do but see it through. At the time, Billy had been half-inclined to agree with De Groot that any plan that involved Charles Town was more trouble than it was worth. But the crew had been restless after learning that Spain had sent soldiers to guard the gold still littering that beach in Florida, after realizing it was out of their reach when they'd been so close to claiming it, agitated in a way that not even taking prizes had been able to sate.

And then Flint had started talking about the unique opportunity presented to them if they rescued the daughter of the Governor of the Carolinas, what it could mean for all of their futures. Just when Billy had thought the crew might turn on the Captain, declare they would have no more of his long-shot plans and mutiny outright — _again_ — instead they had quieted, leaned in and listened to him paint a picture of the better world he meant for them to inherit.

Billy still wasn't completely sure he believed in the future Flint described, or even believed that Flint was telling any of them the whole story. But Flint's plan had become a lot less abstract once they'd taken the _Nemo_ , once they'd found Miss Ashe, bound and neglected. Whatever the truth was, it was like De Groot's look implied: nothing to do now but see it through as best they could.

 

Billy's prediction for the day turned out to be mostly correct. De Groot called the All Hands just after the noon meal, and after a nicely executed wear they rounded the shallows under a starboard tack, slowly sailing into the bay. There weren't many other ships in Nassau at the moment, and he wasn't really sure how to read that. Hopefully just coincidence.

Approach was under topsails only, inching forward as De Groot had his men doing depth measurements until he was satisfied with the anchoring conditions. By the time the anchor dropped, it was just past eight-bells.

Billy'd had his men put the smaller of the three launches on the davits, ready to be launched when they were settled on anchor so he and Silver could go ashore immediately. The others would launch one of the two bigger boats to take the remaining men who'd gotten leave, once the sail stowing was finished. Plus the beach tent and the cooking gear.

De Groot had offered to split up his watch, so he'd always have some of his own favourite rig workers available for the work aloft. Since it was Billy's night ashore, his watch also got the first shoreleave along with half of De Groot's, and the men were in good spirits.

Once the anchor was settled on the sea floor to the satisfaction of De Groot and the Captain, Billy directed the men to take in the topsails. As the last clewlin' was made up on the pin and the first men started climbing aloft to go stow sail, Silver came up on deck to put his bundle of things into the boat. The man noticed Miss Ashe watching the activity from the quarterdeck and gave her a mock bow, which she answered with the flash of a smile, a little mock curtsey.

Billy coiled up another line and hung it onto its pin, reflecting that Silver always managed to time his arrival to fall immediately after any hard work was finished. It would be artful if it wasn't so annoying.

Once the chaos of lines was cleared from the deck, everything neatly coiled onto its pins, Billy went below to change into a clean shirt and grab the few things he wanted to take ashore. From there he went to the salon, where Flint had just finished sealing his missive to Mrs. Barlow.

When he came back on deck Silver was already sitting in the boat, still suspended in the air on the outside of the railing. He was talking to Miss Ashe, in the middle of an elaborate promise to bring her only the most beautiful fresh fruit, specially selected by him personally.

"Get back on deck, jackass," Billy groused, not sure why he was suddenly so annoyed. "You see enough people on deck to lower us down? We're gonna put the boat in the water and climb down."

"Ah, right," Silver said, only seeming to notice now that all the men were aloft, busy stowing sail, while he'd been making himself comfortable in the boat.

After they'd lowered the boat, Silver immediately climbed over the railing to go down to it. Billy hesitated a moment on deck, wanting to say something to Miss Ashe, some kind of acknowledgement, but he could not think of any words.

"Until tomorrow," he settled on, giving her a friendly nod.

She smiled up at him, saying, "Until tomorrow. Enjoy your time ashore."

"I will," he smiled back. Then he turned away to climb over the railing and down to the boat and the impatiently waiting Silver. As they disconnected themselves from the davits lines and pushed off from the _Revenge_ 's hull, a voice sounded from above.

"HEY BILLY!"

Billy looked back and up. Miss Ashe was looking over the railing at them, but it wasn't her who had called, it was Driscoll, bellowing down from the main topsail yard high above them.

"Don't run ahead and tire out all the girls!" he continued, to laughter from the rest of Billy's watch. "You know that ain't fair to the rest of us!"

Billy bit down on a sharp reply, very aware that Miss Ashe was present.

It wasn't that he was chaste — he wasn't exactly strange to the services of the brothel. It was more that the transactional nature of the thing did not appeal, and that he only employed the services of the girls at the Inn on the occasional time that his craving for friendly touch overcame his aversion to the one-sided nature of it all.

The crew didn't usually give him much shit about it — it was remarkable how little shit people had given him about anything ever since he'd hit his full height. And Billy wouldn't have cared about this good-natured jibe from his own watch — would normally have shouted back something about the unlikelihood of Driscoll's partner requiring any sort of stamina — if he hadn't been so aware Miss Ashe was watching.

Her hope that he enjoy the night ashore had likely been a reference to his tale about the crew camps on the beach, but now surely the comment from his crew had made a very different impression on her. He glanced to where she still stood, leaning on the caprail, but he couldn't see her expression, her face haloed by the sun behind her.

He wasn't quite sure why it mattered. It was unlikely she had failed to notice the men's growing excitement about returning to Nassau and the chief reasons of their anticipation. It was equally unlikely that she was somehow expecting different from him.

Billy put his oar in the water and made an impatient sound at Silver to do the same. He wished he didn't have to spend the next half-mile of rowing looking back at the _Revenge_ , wondering what Miss Ashe thought of him now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WE LOVE EVERYBODY IN THIS CANOE! Thank you for your wonderful reviews, our private communication is full of "DID YOU SEE THAT ONE?!" sort of shouting.


	6. VI

Billy wasn’t sure quite what he expected to find when he met _Mrs. Barlow_ , the woman who had exerted such influence on Flint all this time, who had indirectly stood at the basis of a mutiny that had cost them several long term crew members. Morley had called her a witch, and even though it had sounded ridiculous at the time, Billy realised it had coloured his thinking — especially after Morley's untimely death. He realised he was half-afraid of the unseen woman in the way he'd once feared Flint, and he shook it from his mind as he approached her small homestead, irritated with himself. The Captain's explanation that Mrs. Barlow was simply a Puritan woman who shared his love of books, when combined with his comment on her history with Miss Ashe, left a few questions to be answered to be sure, but it _still_ made more sense than Morley's theory ever had.

Whatever Billy was expecting to find when she answered his knock, the poised, small-boned woman who stood in the doorway bore little resemblance to the idea he had built up in his mind.

"Yes?" she asked, raising her eyebrows. Her accent was cultured London, similar to Miss Ashe’s, and Billy thought again of what Flint had said about their history.

"Mrs. Barlow," he greeted her, "my name is Billy, I’m the Quartermaster with Captain Flint’s crew on the _Revenge_. He asked me to give you this," he said, holding the letter out to her.

She accepted the letter but her gaze was on his face. "You have her, then?" she asked, worry tight in her tone.

Billy nodded. "Yes, ma'am, she’s aboard."

"Oh thank heavens," Mrs. Barlow said on a sigh of relief.

"I’m sure the Captain included more details in his letter," he said, gesturing to the unopened note in her hands.

"Of course," she said, seeming to shake herself, then stepped away from the door, turning as though asking him to follow her. "You should come inside, we wouldn’t want any of the neighbours to see you, Mister…?"

"Uh, Manderly," he said, ducking through the doorway and closing the door behind him, immediately wishing he hadn’t spoken at all. He supposed Flint knew that name, but it had been years since he’d used it. "But Billy is fine."

She shot him a look of what he thought might be amusement. "Please, come in and sit down, Mr. Manderly," she said, gesturing to the table near the door. "Can I get you tea?" she asked, and for a moment Billy felt so out of his depth he couldn’t find an answer.

"No, thank you, ma'am," he said finally, gingerly settling into one of the chairs at the table, feeling out of place, oversized. "But I’ll trouble you for water, if I could."

She obliged, and poured herself a cup of tea, then finally sat down at the other end of the table to read Flint’s letter. "Oh, that poor girl," she said after a moment, turning her attention back to Billy. "How is she holding up?"

He hesitated, not really sure how to judge the wellbeing of Miss Ashe. Aboard ship, especially after engagements with other ships, 'holding up fine' included anybody who had all their body parts attached and most of their blood inside their body. She seemed to him to not be especially damaged or scarred. Given that she had spent the better part of a month held prisoner on the _Nemo_ , she was doing remarkably well — and Billy knew a thing or two about being captive, too.

"She seems to be recovering," he said cautiously. Perhaps it was best to let the lady judge for herself. "That is to say, she eats, and comes on deck, and speaks to some of us."

She was certainly doing better than he could have guessed in that first moment he'd seen her, when he'd been sure that she would rather blow them all to kingdom come rather than let anybody get near her. If she'd have chosen to spend the entire voyage to Nassau holed up in the salon, he would not have been surprised, nor thought less of her.

"That's something," Mrs. Barlow sighed, seeming relieved. "Tomorrow at dawn, then?" she asked, scanning the letter again before raising her gaze to his for confirmation.

"First light, at the East Cove, yes ma'am. Mr. Silver and I will be accompanying you back. We want to attract as little attention as possible — we'd like to keep secret both Miss Ashe's presence and your own. The Captain thought dawn would be the safest time for you to come aboard, so we're intending to be aboard by the time the sun rises."

"There's risk from other crews, then?" she asked, more wary than alarmed.

"Yes, ma'am," he answered, but didn't elaborate.

She put it together on her own quick enough, though, closing her eyes and shaking her head. "Another crew might try to kidnap her, claim the ransom for themselves, of course." She sighed, almost sounding exasperated. "I'll be careful with which route I take down to the Cove, and with who knows I'm away. Thank you Mr. Manderly," she said, meeting his gaze again. "I'll see you at dawn."

 

By the time he'd made his way back into town, it was nearing dusk, and he went to find Silver to make sure he'd stayed on task and had arranged for provisions for the crew while they sat at anchor, and for their rotating camp on the beach.

He found Silver just as he settled the agreement for picking up the provisions, and as they walked toward the tavern Billy updated him on having seen Mrs. Barlow.

"So that sees us up at, what? Two-bells of the morning watch?" Silver asked.

"Yeah."

Silver groaned theatrically, but didn't actually look particularly dismayed with this — they were both habitually early risers aboard, Billy for his morning watch, Silver to get the breakfast meal hot and ready in time.

"Are we picking up the food before we go?"

"Yeah," Silver said, waving one hand vaguely. "I'll kick awake some of our guys on the beach to go get it to the boat before we row out."

Silver, naturally, had come to a stop outside the Inn, and some of Max’s girls on the balcony above them called down hellos, drawing their attention for a moment. None of the women were wearing much, corsets and robes for the most part, and Billy’s gaze was drawn to the one leaning on the railing, pulling a comb through her long dark hair.

"Are you sure I can’t convince you to join me?" Silver asked.

"Nah, not this time," Billy said, cutting his gaze between Silver and the girl on the balcony, all pale skin and shining dark hair. "I’ve got a few more things I need to see to in town."

Silver followed his gaze to the balcony, his expression shrewd and far too perceptive. "My way’s a _lot_ less complicated, you know."

"What are you talking about?"

"Don’t you know?" Silver asked, looking at him. "You’re in this deep already and you can’t even admit it?" He shook his head. "That way lies only disaster, my friend."

Billy scowled at him. "Fuck off, Silver. I’ll see you at dawn, and _don’t_ be late. And don’t be hungover either, you prat, you'd better pull your weight rowing."

But Silver just gave him a serious, focused look and said, "Don’t do anything stupid." He turned and walked into the Inn, and after a moment, Billy continued on toward the tailor, muttering darkly under his breath as he went.

Several passages and back alleys later, he was still so wound up by what Silver had said that he didn’t see Anne Bonny standing in his path until he’d nearly run into her. "What?" he demanded as he stopped in his tracks, staring down at the much shorter woman and resisting the urge to take a step backwards out of the reach of her swords.

"You’re back," she simply said, and it took a moment for Billy to remember that since the information on the _Nemo_ ’s location had come from Max originally, naturally Anne Bonny knew all about it too. He looked around, but the edge of the square where she’d cornered him seemed deserted, free from prying ears.

"Yeah," he shrugged. "It went fine." He looked at the tailor’s shop over her shoulder, just on the other side of the square, and started to step around her, but she countered him.

"And?" she prompted, tipping back her head to give him an irritated look.

"And what? What do you want, Bonny? We’re going to stay at anchor a few days, just finished arranging supplies for the crew. The Captain has the rest well enough in hand."

"And you’re heading straight for the tailor’s shop. At least you’ve got the sense not to go to the dressmaker," she muttered, hat hiding most of her face from him.

"So, what, it’s strange for me to go to the tailor now? I want to get her a few things, the spares we had on hand are giant on her."

"How big is this girl, exactly?" Bonny asked, sounding weary.

Billy shrugged again. "About your size, maybe a couple inches shorter. I’m sure the tailor will have something small enough."

She looked up at him to give him an unimpressed look.

"And you don’t think someone might take note of Billy Bones buying his clothes ten sizes too small?" she asked scathingly, then rolled her eyes towards the brim of her hat. "Don’t be an idiot. I’ll buy her what she needs, meet me back here in half an hour." With that, she turned on the heel of her boot and marched away across the square towards the tailor shop, leaving Billy staring after her.

 _Buy her what she needs._ How would Bonny know? Well, he supposed she'd have some idea of what a woman might need on board a ship that could be got at the tailor, though there was one item she wasn't likely to find there. He looked around for a moment and then made his way to the cooper.

Besides the usual cooperage business there was a small array of wooden cups, spoons, flutes, and yes — combs. Billy picked something simple, not too fine-toothed; with the current state of her hair he doubted that would be useful. He paid for it, ignoring the pointed look the cooper gave from the comb to Billy's shorn head, and made his way to a bench out of the flow of foot-traffic to wait for Anne Bonny to return.

The comb was burning a hole in his belt-pouch, and he took it back out, cradling it in the palm of his hand so passers-by couldn't see. He clearly couldn't offer to help with Miss Ashe’s hair, even a pirate could see that would be the height of impropriety.

Just as inappropriate as, say, caressing her ankle after removing a splinter from her foot? No, clearly more so. He'd only realised in hindsight how long he'd let that moment stretch out, and his surprise at her not protesting had been quickly replaced with shame. Of course she would not protest such; she'd spent a month at the mercy of the _Nemo's_ crew, and still didn't seem completely confident of her safety. He couldn't expect her to guard the boundaries of what was acceptable to her; she might well be unsure if refusal would be respected, or might even lead to more of what she did not want.

No, he would suggest nothing of the sort, only hand her the comb with the rest of the things he'd got for her. When Mrs. Barlow came aboard with them tomorrow morning, perhaps she would assist Miss Ashe.

He glanced up in time to see Anne Bonny come striding toward him, and tucked away the comb. Anne was carrying a string and wax-paper wrapped bundle that she unceremoniously shoved into his hands.

"Two pairs of trousers, couple of shirts, and smallclothes to make the rest bearable," she said. "Ought to see her set for a while."

"Thank you."

Billy handed over the piece-of-eight he'd estimated to spend on clothes for Miss Ashe. He was still sitting, so Anne's hat wasn't hiding her face from him for once, and she blinked, her usual scowl softening. Perhaps she'd expected to have to argue to get back what she'd spent.

"Nice. See you 'round, Bones."

Billy sat for a long moment after she'd gone, clasping the bundle Bonny had given him just tight enough to make the paper crinkle, the clothes inside compress under his fingertips, before finally standing and tucking the parcel away.

He glanced up to the sky. It was nearing sunset, which meant that his brothers would have arrived ashore by now, but more like than not would be spending their evening in the brothel and not crash on the beach until well past dark.

A light breeze sent a waft of scent into his face, grilled meat like he hadn't had in weeks. The tavern must have pig on the spit, and Billy didn't even need to think about his next move. There were worse ways to spend the evening than to have a drink in the tavern and a meal that wasn't fish stew.

 

It was probably good that Silver wasn't there when Billy received his food, because the vigor he attacked the roast meat with might have insulted the cook. Then again, maybe not. It was no secret to Billy that the man hadn't had any experience as a cook before he'd ended up on the _Walrus_ , and still heavily relied on Randall for some things. Randall did not believe in spices, or in much beyond 'hearty stew,' but at least he could be relied upon never to serve anything half-raw.

For a while Billy paid little attention to the rest of the tavern, mostly focused on enjoying his food. Once he was finished and his plate with bones had been removed, he took his cup of rum in hand and leaned back in his seat, back comfortably against the wall. The tavern was relatively quiet. There weren't many ships in the bay right now, but he'd recognised the _Ranger_.

Vane was in the tavern with a few of his crew, big men that looked rough in a way that wasn't how pirates or sailors tended to look. Billy wasn't quite sure of the difference, but it was there — they were landsmen by his eye. He'd heard the tale of how Vane had lost the _Ranger_ and his crew, a daring step from Miss Guthrie, that she had unsurprisingly been forced to rescind. Vane had come back with a new crew and retaken his ship, and that seemed to be the situation as it stood.

"BILLY!" he heard, and realised he'd been looking in Vane's direction too long. The man was headed his way, arms wide in jovial greeting. "Billy Bones!"

"Vane," Billy said, a little wary at this unusually affable greeting and amused at the hearty shoulderclap he received from the other man.

"Surely you're not all on your own? Come drink with us!" Vane said, expansive and friendly. "Miss!" he called waving over one of the serving girls. "Another measure for this man."

Before Billy could protest — not that he really intended to do so — his cup was refilled. He glanced through the doorway to the other side of the street, wondering if his crew might not be ready to go, and Vane saw him look.

"Ah, they'll be a while and you know it," Vane grinned at him. "Come!"

Billy hesitated a moment, looking across the street again, then shrugged and got up, following Vane back to the table his crew occupied. There'd always been tension between Flint and Vane, and therefore between their crews, so this was new. He wondered if the _Ranger_ had taken a good prize recently, or if Vane was just a way into his cups, to be this friendly. Perhaps both.

Drinking with them would be a distraction from his own thoughts, at least, better than stewing on what Silver had said or what Miss Ashe might have thought about Driscoll's comment.

"Now lads!" Vane addressed his crew as they approached. "This here is Billy Bones, Quartermaster of Flint's crew. Sailor, pirate, gentleman."

Billy cracked a grin at that introduction and at Vane's expansive mood, and dragged up a chair while the men grunted their acknowledgement of him.

"Well met!" he said, "What's the _Ranger_ been up to lately? Must be something good, for you to be in such high spirits."

Vane needed nothing else to launch into a tale, likely only slightly embellished, of the most recent prize they had taken. It didn't sound like there'd been any finesse to it, not the way the _Ranger_ had sailed with her old crew, but the take had been worth the effort. That combined with the crew consisting of mostly landsmen and the way Vane had introduced him, made Billy wonder if Vane was lacking experienced sailors, and if he might be on the way to getting a recruitment pitch.

With that thought in mind Billy managed to dodge the question of what the _Revenge_ had been up to by telling an older story about the _Walrus_. There had been some great manoeuvring by Flint that had left their prize stalled in the middle of a tack, more or less having to await the pirates even though they'd stood a decent chance of getting away until that point.

Vane loved the story, bringing up other examples of technical sailing being of advantage, seemingly trying to convince his crew there was merit to it. Billy was watching his cup, willing to enjoy himself here — swapping sailing stories with Vane was turning into a decent enough night — without letting his guard down too much.

It was nearing midnight when he heard a group of men spilling into the street outside, the cadence of Silver's voice in storytelling mode standing out from the general noise of the street, and Bosedeh's booming laugh. Billy got up.

"I'll be on my way. Nice talking to you," he nodded at Vane, who accepted this easily. They clasped forearms, Billy nodded to the rest of Vane's crew, and found his own crew outside, in the highest of spirits.

"BILLY!" they roared as he joined them, and he grinned, walking with them toward the beach while he was treated to three simultaneous stories about the girls they were half — or more than half — in love with and their exploits of the night.

They picked up driftwood as they made their way down onto the beach, and a fire was burning in short order, most of the men not done with enjoying their night ashore just yet. Billy and Silver found a spot in the sand a little way back, on the edge of the firelight.

The bay was dark, pirate ships not generally showing anchor lights like Navy ships would have, but Billy thought he saw a glimpse of light in the direction where he thought the _Revenge_ to be. He fell asleep to the sounds of his brothers' laughter, his thoughts with the distant ship.

 

* * *

 

Abigail stood on deck as the sun set, watching the beach across the bay come alight as the daylight faded.

Billy's watch and half of De Groot's men had rowed off a couple of hours ago, a raucous group packed into one of the ship's boats, jostling each other and shouting encouragement to the rowers. They had places to go, girls to see. Their voices had echoed over the water, gradually getting more distant, until the ship had started to feel quiet.

The men remaining on board had divided themselves into three groups, and then to Abigail's great interest, under the Captain's watchful eye they used a hand game to decide who would take Evening watch, who Middle, and who Morning. They called it Jan-Ken, and it involved three different gestures made between two people, each gesture vulnerable to one of the others and victorious over the second. It was a lively battle to establish the watch rotation, but most of the men were laughing, shouting encouragement to their chosen 'fighter'. Even the Captain glimpsed a smile as he looked on.

Once established, the duty watch took their lookout positions while the others drifted off, some to sleep, some to drink a measure of rum and play cards, some to do whatever things pirates did in their downtime while the ship was on anchor, each ready to be called up if the need should arise. The ship quieted further after that, Abigail's section of the quarterdeck failing so silent that she could easily hear the waves lapping at the hull, and the light and the occasional noise drifting across the water from the beach encampments only helped to breathe life into the vivid image Billy had painted for her.

The way the men going ashore had talked about their plans, the things Mr. Driscoll had yelled down at Billy, certainly painted another sort of vivid image, one which Abigail was trying valiantly to ignore.

If she was honest with herself, she was failing spectacularly at the task.

She understood intimate relations in only the broadest of terms, and never before had she felt that lack of knowledge so keenly. After all she'd been through, and even more so what people would assume had happened to her — to not even understand what they'd assume. She was no innocent, no one could possibly be after more than a month in the company of pirates, and yet this was an understanding seemingly kept from her in the assumption that it would keep her soul safe somehow.

While Lady Chudleigh and Mistress Astell had been committed to providing Abigail with as classical an education as they could manage, and had even included a little study of human anatomy in her curriculum, there were simply things that it was inappropriate for an unmarried young lady to know, they had said. On the details of procreation in particular they had been frustratingly vague.

Abigail was left with the impression that whatever went on in the marriage bed was chiefly for the benefit of men, and that women either had no real option to refuse, or chose to tolerate it for the sake of having children. And yet the idea that a woman may enjoy such relations had been hinted upon here and there. Never directly in front of Abigail, but once she had overheard one of the younger, more recently married ladies in the circle whisper to her friend that she had 'finally got him convinced' and that the results had been 'most satisfactory'.

And the other evening while Abigail sat in the windowseat of the salon during the Captain's watch, a soft conversation had drifted down to her through the open window, of one of the men asking another how to make the girl of his choice like him back. The answer had been, confusingly, a recommendation to use his tongue. Apparently this had been sufficiently instructive to the first man, but Abigail had been left with even more questions.

When she had asked, back in London, when she had pressed the point, every woman in her circle of surrogate mothers had refrained from answering directly. Instead they had promised that they would explain when the time came, to send Abigail into marriage with all the knowledge and advice they could collectively provide. If she had married in London, she had no doubt that they would have kept that promise.

But then Lord Chudleigh had died the winter previous, forcing a resolution to the question that had been hanging over them, of when it might be appropriate for Abigail to join her father in the Carolinas. With it had come the sudden, harsh realisation that none of the women who had cared for her since her mother's death, who had helped to raise her and educate her and escort her through society, would be present at her eventual wedding.

This had dismayed the women also, and in preparation for her departure, they had each written her a letter with advice for a young bride. Lady Chudleigh had bundled them and presented them to Abigail upon their goodbye, a sealed packet of letters not to be opened until the day before her wedding.

She desperately wished she could open them now, to learn more about this human behaviour that seemed to be all around her, writ large in the people surrounding her and yet utterly vague to herself.

But the letters had been on the _Good Fortune_ , and thus been lost along with every other trace of her former life. Until now Abigail had mourned Róisín and thought little about the possessions the _Nemo_ crew had taken from her, burned and scuppered along with everything else. Books and clothes and embroidery projects could and would be replaced, but her friend was dead.

Now she remembered that the combined wisdom of her circle of mothers had also been taken from her, the love and caring the women had wanted to send with her into her new life, the answers to questions that were large in her mind now — all lost forever.

She looked across the bay to the men on the beach, to the kind of freedom they had to make a life of their choosing.

 _'It seemed impossible to fold myself back up into the person I'd been then. So I didn't'_ Billy had said, and it had sounded so easy, had made so much sense. But Billy had had options open to him, where Abigail could see none for herself. Save maybe the option to become one of _'the girls_ ' in the brothel the men spoke of so much. And she knew that she might be considered ruined in the eyes of proper society, after so long among pirates and without even a chaperone, but she wasn't willing to consider that kind of future for herself, especially with a path back to her father laid out in front of her now.

She thought about the girl who might at this moment be with Billy, a girl who could touch and kiss him and do… pleasurable things Abigail only understood in the vaguest of terms. Things Abigail certainly couldn't consider doing with Billy, and should not even be thinking about.

He'd be considerate to that girl, she thought — she couldn't imagine him any other way. He'd touch her gently with those huge, rough hands, so aware of his own size and strength. Perhaps he'd lay down with her on a bed, so she didn't have to crane her neck to look at him, so they could kiss at their leisure. Their hands might roam over one another's bodies, over the fastenings of clothes, and—

A distant roar of laughter startled her out of her thoughts, and Abigail distractedly rubbed her face, embarrassed at where her mind had been, her body feeling overly warm even in the evening breeze off the ocean.

No, that was most certainly not the kind of life she was striving for, and she should banish all thought of it immediately. Tomorrow Lady Hamilton would visit, and assist her in writing the letter to her father, and Abigail would take the first steps upon the road back to the life she'd always intended to live. A life she still wanted, even if the plans felt as though they had been made by someone else, even if she would have to face that life completely on her own, with none of the guidance from London that Róisín's company or the letters had been intended to give her.

She turned away from the railing, leaving the distant crews on the beach to their revelry, and went into the salon to try to sleep.  


	7. VII

Abigail watched from the quarterdeck as the boat approached with Lady Hamilton in the hazy early morning light. She was sitting on the bench, straight-backed and regal in her dress, and Abigail suddenly felt very aware of her own clothing, of the borrowed, much too large pirate shirt and pants she was wearing, the piece of old rope holding them up, the kerchief wrapped around her tangled hair, of how utterly inappropriate it was for her to run around like this. Lady Hamilton had sounded like an understanding woman in her letter, and Abigail could only hope that would hold up now.

When Abigail had come aboard the _Good Fortune_ , the ship had been on the quay, with a wide plank with a railing laid out for her to walk across, and a set of special steps from the plank down to the deck. The _Revenge_ had no such steps, the men climbed the 'ladder' on the outside of the hull and jumped down from the railing to the deck. As the boat approached she wondered how Lady Hamilton would get aboard; she couldn't exactly climb along the outside of the ship like the men might. Surely that would not be asked of her — or of Abigail herself?

Captain Flint came out on deck as the boat was rowed into the lee of the _Revenge_ , and Abigail watched him as he looked down to it. She'd become accustomed to his stern countenance, the judgement and cool calculation in his eyes. Now though — well perhaps she imagined it, but she thought there might be a sense of anticipation to him.

She saw Mr. De Groot order some of the men into place. Down there, Billy attached the hook of the davits lines to thick ropes connected to the boat itself in six places, put an extra securing line on it, and called up, "Ready!"

A team of eight men started to haul on a line, much more carefully than Abigail had seen them work lines for sails or yards. The boat jerked a few times as the waves raised and lowered it until the ropes fed through the pulley system and came taut. Billy and Silver sat down on the bottom of the boat, with the barrels and sacks that were presumably provisions, lowering the center of gravity to help steady it, and then it slowly rose up to deck level on the chanting of "two-six-heave".

"Well!" called Billy when the the boat was at the caprail, and the hauling team made off the line on the belaying pin. Some of the deck crew came up to pull the boat as close against the ship as they could, holding it steady. Billy got out first to take up position on the railing. Lady Hamilton cautiously rose to her feet and took his hand for the step across, Silver counterbalancing the boat so it would not rock under her as she shifted her weight. It looked like a precarious process to Abigail, especially hindered by skirts and stays, but Lady Hamilton moved with confidence.

Captain Flint was on the deck awaiting Lady Hamilton, and from her spot on the quarterdeck Abigail could not see his face, but she could see Lady Hamilton's, whose expression was warm as she looked down on him from her position on the railing.

The Captain reached up to put his hands on her waist, and she let go of Billy's hand and laid her hands on the Captain's shoulders. He lifted her down with a wide swing, not mere practicality but something joyful, almost like part of a dance. Her feet touched down lightly, and he held on a little longer than necessary, Abigail thought, looking down into her eyes with a fondness she had not thought to see in him.

Lady Hamilton raised her hand from his shoulder and lightly brushed her knuckles over the Captain's cheekbone, and said something in a voice that was for him only. Perhaps it was Abigail's imagination, but she thought he leaned into the touch a fraction, prolonging the moment by an infinitesimal amount.

_Oh._

She had thought the Captain had seduced Lady Hamilton, rescued her from a bad situation and used his charms while she was vulnerable. Had with cunning and calculation managed to weave a spell on her that had somehow held for a decade and across the long periods he was at sea.

Seeing them like this, though, even though they were clearly well aware they were in public, even though the Captain's face didn't explicitly betray any feelings… Abigail had to admit she might have to rethink her theory of the situation. If anybody had been seduced, it might just as easily have been Captain Flint.

The moment between them only lasted a second, perhaps, and none of the pirates seemed to think it particularly worthy of note. Then Lady Hamilton turned toward Abigail, and she felt herself quail a little, intimidated by the poised older woman and what she herself might look like in her eyes.

But Lady Hamilton lifted her skirts to take the steps up to the quarterdeck, and then held out her hands, such an expression of understanding and sympathy in her eyes that Abigail felt her anxiety ease, that she found herself crossing the deck between them and taking the woman's offered hands.

"Oh, my dear girl," Lady Hamilton said, squeezing her hands. "How you’ve grown." She released Abigail’s hands to raise one of her own and place it on the side of Abigail’s face, not unlike her greeting with the Captain. "You look so much like your mother," she said, smiling.

Abigail blinked away the tears that sprung to her eyes at her kindness and the unexpected memory of her mother. "Thank you, Lady Hamilton," she murmured.

"Please, you must call me Miranda."

"If you will call me Abigail?" she asked shyly in response. "I have missed hearing my given name."

"Then it is decided," she replied, smiling more broadly, a conspiratorial twinkle in her eye, like they were sharing a secret.

Captain Flint had hung back a step to allow them their reunion, but joined them at a look from Lady Hamilton, and Abigail glanced up to find Billy watching from several paces away, looking unsure of his welcome and holding in his hands a parcel wrapped in waxed paper and twine. When she caught his eyes, he took a few steps forward and held the bundle out to her.

"Picked you up a few things in town," he said to her, gaze then darting from Captain Flint to Lady Hamilton before meeting Abigail’s own again. "Couple of things I thought might be useful. Should fit better than what you’ve got now."

She accepted the package from him, noting the soft give of cloth beneath the paper, and the finely carved wooden comb tucked under the strings holding the parcel closed. When Abigail looked up to thank him for the gift — to thank him for even thinking of her needs, truly — she caught Flint directing a questioning, unamused expression at Billy, one eyebrow raised.

Billy shrugged it off. "Had a little help from Anne Bonny," he told Flint.

The Captain looked mollified, if still a little sour. "I suppose I should have expected as much, Miss Bonny seems to have taken on Max’s inability to leave well-enough alone. Come," he said, turning back to Abigail and Miranda, "we should retire to the salon — I’d prefer to keep your presence a secret from any prying eyes."

Abigail caught Billy’s gaze again as he turned to go, her fingertips dancing over the teeth of the comb atop the package. "Thank you," she told him sincerely, and he smiled and nodded to her before turning to go below, and she hurried to catch up with Captain Flint and Lady Hamilton.

The salon was cool and dim in the early morning light, and unlike her previous mornings aboard, the Captain lit some candles to better illuminate the room. Miranda looked around the cabin in curiosity, and Abigail realised this must be her first time visiting the ship; Billy had mentioned they hadn’t had it long, with the implication that before that they’d had another ship they called home. Abigail looked from the heavy wood furniture to the gold-leafing on the ceiling, to the sailcloth curtain partitioning the corner she had slept in the last few days, and felt strangely like a child who had forgotten to tidy up her playthings before her mother’s glamorous friend came to visit.

But her mother was not here, only Miranda Hamilton turning a slow circle as she took in the cabin, and Captain Flint leaning against the chart table, watching her, his expression softer than what she had seen on deck, even. Abigail turned towards her corner, still clutching the bundle Billy had given her, fingers tracing the teeth of the comb, intending to squirrel the package away in her cot until she had a free moment to examine the gift, but Miranda stopped her with a friendly tone.

"Abigail dear," she called, "I am ever so curious as to what the kind Mr. Manderly brought for you from town."

 _Manderly_. Was that his name? In all her days aboard, she had never heard anyone call him anything but _Billy_.

Abigail fingered the package, strangely reluctant to open it in front of Miranda, and especially in front of the Captain. She had no idea why. It wasn't a personal gift, presumably. Seeing their eyes on her, she pushed aside her strange qualms and put it on the desk to open it. She untied the twine holding the package closed, then lifted the finely carved wooden comb from its place outside the waxed paper and laid it aside before unfolding the paper. 

"Oh, they're pirate clothes," Abigail said, almost laughing in her surprise. She looked up to find Miranda and Flint watching her with amused expressions, and she hastily backtracked. "I only mean—"

"To better disguise you from any of the other crews, should they happen to see you on deck, I presume?" Miranda said, directing a look at Flint, who nodded. "I must say," she added, smiling and turning her gaze back to Abigail, "you do cut quite the dashing figure as a pirate, my dear."

Abigail smiled, both at the compliment and the image it summoned, as though it was perfectly natural for a young lady such as herself to be a pirate. She held one of the shirts up against herself and examined it. Like her borrowed shirt, the body of it was boxy and the full sleeves gathered at the wrists, the one she held a soft off-white and the one below it a dark blue. "They look like they'll fit me well," she said.

"That is ever so thoughtful of Mr. Manderly," Miranda said, something odd in her tone that Abigail couldn't place. "Quite attentive, wouldn't you say?"

When Abigail turned towards them, Flint and Miranda were sharing a significant look, but they seemed to sense her attention, and turned their gazes to her.

"Miss Bonny is of a size with you," Captain Flint explained. "And a close friend of Mistress Max, from whom we got the information on the _Nemo_ 's location, so she'll keep our secret on this."

"That was kind of her," Abigail said, looking down at the clothes. "Does Miss Bonny, ah… _work_ for Mistress Max, then?" she asked carefully. She had heard Max's name frequently enough in relation to _the girls_ that she felt certain she knew the answer to that question, and yet she couldn't keep herself from asking. Was Miss Bonny the girl Billy had spent the night with? She blushed a little at remembering her thoughts on that from the night before. It was an odd image, Billy asking the assistance of one of the brothel girls — and yet endearing in a way she couldn't quite explain.

Flint actually grinned at that, like she'd surprised him. "No," he said on a huff of a chuckle, "Anne Bonny is a pirate. Sails with Jack Rackham's crew on the _Colonial Dawn_ now I believe, previously with Charles Vane on the _Ranger_ , and before that under Blackbeard's flag."

"Oh," Abigail said, blinking. That provided for a _much_ different mental image, one she tucked away for later contemplation. She had taken Miranda's comment in jest, she had never seriously considered that there might be female pirates. "Very kind of her indeed."

"Only a few years older than you," the Captain added, "if I'm not mistaken."

"And you trust she'll keep the secret, even from her own crew?" she asked.

"Well," Flint said, leaning back against the chart table and crossing his arms. "Max holds a share in the crew of the _Colonial Dawn_ as well, and neither she nor Miss Bonny nor Captain Rackham would allow their crew to go against her agreement with our crew."

"Mistress Max sounds like a formidable woman," Abigail said. "And Billy spoke of Miss Guthrie, as well. I had not expected to find so many women of authority and influence in the New World."

"I can't speak for the rest of the New World," the Captain said mildly, shooting Miranda a look. "Perhaps it is just Nassau."

 

Captain Flint left the salon for their use soon after, promising to have somebody bring their breakfasts up to them shortly before eight-bells. When the door closed behind the Captain, Miranda turned towards her, expression concerned and sympathetic, but not pitying, to Abigail's eyes. She crossed the few paces separating them to take her hands again, squeezing Abigail's own with fingers she was surprised to find more callused than she had thought to expect.

"Oh, my dear," Miranda said, "I have been ever so worried about you these last weeks. How are you, truly?"

"I hardly know," she answered honestly, "so much has happened in so short a time." She took a deep breath and a moment to consider her current state, her emotions, her fears, her pains. "I am... well," she said finally, "after these last few days of recuperation here on the _Revenge_ , better than I thought possible. Captain Flint has been an attentive host, the crew have gone out of their way to make me feel welcome and, and _unafraid_ in their presence. After everything that's happened, it's been more than I could have hoped for." She swallowed, hesitating, but Lady Hamilton's expression urged her forward. "I'm afraid I… I had rather given up hope," she said in a small voice, "by the time the _Revenge_ crew found me on the _Nemo_."

"With what you survived, no one could possibly blame you. Forgive me for asking, but did anything happen to you of an…" she hesitated, her voice gentle and full of sympathy, "intimate nature? Is there any care or need that you might not have wished to mention to the men?"

"Oh, I— not that," Abigail said, eyes fixed on the deckplanks. "They delighted in tormenting me, but nobody— touched me apart from the times they moved me to a different cell."

"I'm glad you were at least spared that," Miranda said with relief. "If it would help to talk about any of it, please know you can tell me anything," she said, squeezing her hands again. "As much as or as little as would be a help to you."

"Thank you," Abigail told her sincerely. "I think I would like to speak of it, eventually. Maybe not just yet, but soon I hope." She smiled when she realised how naturally the word had come to her. "I hope."

Miranda smiled at her fondly. "Whenever you are ready, my dear. May I ask you a question regarding the more recent past?" At Abigail's nod, she continued, "Is there a particular significance to the comb Mr. Manderly brought for you from town?"

"No special significance, other than, well." She released their clasped hands so she could reach up and remove the kerchief covering her hair. "After a month, it's in a bit of a state. I suppose Billy noticed," she said, feeling herself blush at the thought. "I asked him if I could borrow one of the needles they mend the sails with, and worked out a few of the knots near the ends with that, but a comb will be much more suited. It was very kind of him, was it not?"

"Indeed it was," Miranda answered, her smile turning indulgent. "What do you say we take it to one of the windowseats, I'll see what progress I can make on your hair before our breakfasts arrive, and we can talk and catch up like two friends who haven't seen each other in ages, hmm?"

"I would like that very much, Lady Hamilton, thank you." And the other woman's raised eyebrow, Abigail corrected herself. "Miranda. I would like that very much."

"So let me see," Miranda said as they settled in the windowseat with Abigail's back to her, "I believe the last time I saw you must have been the summer of 1705." She lifted a section of Abigail's hair and began to gently work the comb through from the ends. "You would have been, what, nine years old? Ten?"

"I turned ten that autumn, yes." Thinking back, she remembered it a little. Her mother had passed nearly a year earlier, and by that point it had become something of a novelty to see any of her mother's friends, despite how much time her father spent in the Hamiltons' salon during the same period.

"And your father arrived in Charles Town in the spring of '07, did he not?"

"Yes," Abigail replied, tilting her head as Miranda plucked at a particularly vicious knot. "Lord and Lady Chudleigh were kind enough to let me stay with them while he was away, see to my education and my entrance into society in London."

"I could not have hoped for a better arrangement for you, my dear," Miranda said, and Abigail could hear the smile in her voice. "Lady Chudleigh was such a dear friend of your mother's, I just know she would have approved."

Abigail found herself smiling as well. "She spoke of my mother often, more perhaps than my father did, even, in those years. It helped me to feel connected to her memory as I grew. I will always be grateful to Lady Chudleigh for all she did for me, but for that most particularly."

"Then we must resolve to speak of her often ourselves, and of the friends we left behind in London, too. Keep them alive in our hearts though they are not with us."

It was both like and unlike Abigail's conversations with Róisín, akin to being ensconced in a drawing room in London surrounded by the quiet chatter of her surrogate mothers, and yet something altogether its own, with the rising sun glinting off the blue water of the bay just outside the windows. There was a thread of female companionship Abigail had known she longed for, but until this moment hadn't realised how desperately she needed.

They talked together easily until Mr. Silver brought them their breakfasts, speaking of her education and of mutual friends in London, of the marriages and births and publications Miranda had missed in her time away. It made Abigail ache with homesickness, and yet feel, in an odd way, that she had finally come home at last.

 

"The men call you _Mrs. Barlow_ ," Abigail said as she settled herself again on the cushion in front of Miranda after they had finished their breakfasts, their conversation smoothly flowing between one activity and the next. "Why is that, if I may ask?"

"For the simple reason that it is my name, here," she replied.

Abigail bit her tongue against asking anything else, anything too intrusive or rude, but the other woman seemed to sense her curiosity and went on, "As a widowed woman living alone in a new place, in many ways it is simply easier to become someone else. Invent a false history rather than drag out your skeletons for your new neighbors to gawk at."

She was silent for a long moment, carefully pulling the comb through the lock of hair she was working on. "And in many ways," Miranda added, "in many ways, it is safer, too."

"Is it dangerous, then?" Abigail asked. "Living on New Providence Island?"

"No, I wouldn't say so," Miranda answered, laying a smoothed section of hair over Abigail's shoulder and beginning on the next. "Nassau itself, perhaps, if you aren't wary, but the interior is exceptionally quiet. Farms and plantations and homesteads, ordinary people trying to build ordinary lives. It would remind me of the English countryside, if it weren't for the heat and the difference in vegetation."

Abigail tried to imagine it, tried to reconcile this description with what Billy had told her about Nassau, tried to hold the duality of New Providence in her mind. "I suppose if Captain Flint's plan to offer pardons to the pirates of Nassau is to succeed, the citizens of the interior would need to play a significant role in the future of the colony, would need to find a way to make peace with their neighbors in Nassau."

"Yes indeed," Miranda said. "And that will be a task all unto itself."

"But you believe it could work? Offering pardons to the pirates?"

"I have always believed in this plan. When it was no more than Thomas's longshot idealism, even then he convinced me, won me to his side with logic and persuasion, as he always did. I believed then that it could work, that it would work, if it had the right kind of support. But the question now is if your father will stand with us in support of this plan again, as he did then. If he can be persuaded to see the value in New Providence reborn."

"I have so much to say to him, I hardly know where to start," Abigail said after a moment. "I suppose in all this time he has had no word of me at all, he must think the _Good Fortune_ was lost at sea. He must think me dead. I'll have to tell him what happened, how I survived the scuppering of the _Good Fortune_ , the kidnapping, the rescue, all of it." She trailed off, heart pounding a little, and focused on the rhythm of the comb as Miranda pulled it through her hair.

"It is so strange," she went on, voice sounding far away even to herself. "To my father, there is no difference between Captain Flint and Captain Derrick of the _Nemo_ , no difference between their crews. He would call them all _pirates_ and sentence them to hang. How can I possibly explain the difference to him? How can I expect him to understand it when I can barely name it? It's in a hundred small things, done and not done." She took a deep breath, pushing thoughts of the _Nemo_ from her mind, finding comfort in Miranda's calm presence behind her.

"I know this is bigger than me," Abigail said softly. "I know that it could mean the chance at a peaceful existence for so many people, if we can convince my father to stand in advocacy of this plan. But I cannot help but see the stark differences between the crews of the _Revenge_ and the _Nemo_ — cannot help but wish pardons for the former and condemnation for the latter. How can I convince my father to support a plan to pardon the pirates of Nassau when my own experience with pirates has been so limited and… contradictory."

"My dear, this is a heavy burden we've asked you to bear, but you needn't bear quite so much of it alone. Convincing your father to support us falls to James and myself, if he can be persuaded to meet with us. All you need do is speak to him truthfully, tell him that you are safe, and ask him to allow us to come to Charles Town to meet with him."

Abigail nodded. It sounded so simple when Miranda said it — and perhaps it would be simple, once she had quill in hand. She'd written letters to her father for near a decade, surely this would not be so very different.

 

* * *

 

Billy was in the mizzen mast, finally getting around to reinforcing some of the ratlins he'd noticed were beginning to fray. He'd have preferred to replace them, but agreed with De Groot that getting the topsail yards good and done made more sense right now.

Most of the men were in the Main, taking out the stunsail rigging and its booms in preparation for getting the yard down tomorrow. They were their usual boisterous self while Billy was quietly working on his own and partially hidden by the thick bundle of the stowed lateen sail, so he wasn't surprised when Flint and Mrs. Barlow came up to the quarterdeck seemingly without noticing him. It wasn't that he was trying to eavesdrop, but from his position their voices were easy to pick out.

"She's started on the letter," Mrs. Barlow said as she joined the Captain at the railing, "I thought I'd give her a little privacy."

"Can't be an easy letter, with all that's happened to her."

They were silent for a while, comfortable. Billy wasn't sure what he'd expected of their relationship, if he was still half thinking of the mysterious person scheming from the shadows behind Flint. They certainly seemed nothing like that now, standing close together against the railing, looking out to the island. Mrs. Barlow had shifted close enough that her shoulder was brushing the Captain's arm. They just looked like two people of long and close acquaintance, sharing confidences.  

"I had feared she would be— Of course, she has barely had time for any of her experiences to become her. She may yet struggle later."

"In truth, I was not expecting her to do as well as she has," Flint said in a low voice. "We found her on the _Nemo_ in some dark little nook next to the powder magazine, and she'd managed to grab the lantern from the man who first found her. Was ready to use it, too, blow us all to hell."

"Poor girl, to be that desperate. How has she seemed to you since?"

"Miss Ashe is a remarkably steady young woman. She seems to be taking her ordeal in stride, as much as anyone could. She's spoken with a few of the crewmembers, and spent a fair amount of time on deck, which I think can only be to her benefit."

"Hm, yes, I had put together that she's spent some time on deck. I'm sure you've noticed how red her her nose is, James," she said, leveling a displeased look at the Captain. "Four days at sea after a month locked in a cell." She tutted at him. "You should have encouraged her to stay in the shade."

"I _did_. Trust me, I know how easily fair skin burns in this sun. She was reminded to stay to the shade, and for the most part she has. If she hadn't, I'd have presented her to you red as a fresh-cooked lobster, I'm sure."

"Always good to hear it could have been worse," Mrs. Barlow laughed lightly. "And I suppose it's not like you could forbid her from coming on deck, or lock her in the salon. After a month held in that state, fresh air and sunshine might just be worth a sunburnt nose."

They were silent a moment, then the Captain said in a low voice, "The look on her face when she successfully managed the helm for near an hour, that was worth a little sunburn."

"Did she really?" Mrs. Barlow said, sounding impressed. "She hadn't mentioned that to me yet."

"Caught a fish, too, her first day with us, if I understand the story correctly," Flint added, and Billy smiled to himself, thinking of Miss Ashe's expression of quiet triumph at helping to bring in the fish, and again at the helm.

"I think that perhaps she thinks you'll disapprove," the Captain went on. "She's been among pirates for more than a month, she might worry that any suggestion of having had a few enjoyable moments aboard my ship would diminish the ordeal she suffered on the _Nemo_ , if not in your eyes, then certainly in the eyes of society. That it might even make her responsible somehow, as if she wished for this to happen to her."

Mrs. Barlow made a disgusted noise. "I will make sure she knows how glad I am that her time aboard here has not been further traumatising."

They were silent for a time, and Billy got absorbed in tightening the wraps he was putting on the ratlins.

"I am glad your Quartermaster thought to buy her clothes in town, it will be good for her, having a few things of her own again."

"Hmm."

"Which reminds me — will you be going ashore?"

"I must send Miss Ashe's letter, when she's done with it — and I plan to speak to Miss Guthrie tomorrow. It's high time we bring her in on this plan."

"Yes, and I agree," Mrs. Barlow said placidly. "But will you be coming ashore with me, tonight?"

The Captain turned his head to look at her, eyebrows rising, amused.

"A Lady can hope, Sir," she said coyly, looking up at him.

The Captain kept her gaze for a long moment, then turned his head back to look at the island with a gruff hum.  

Mrs. Barlow smiled as if that had meant plenty to her.

Billy felt a pang of something unidentifiable at this evidence that these two people, however unlikely it had seemed before, did indeed seem to have a genuine affection for each other. Perhaps even something like his parents had had when he was a child. He hadn't thought that was possible for any pirate, and yet Flint… seemed to have something akin to it, even if only sometimes.

Down on deck, the Captain laid his hand over where Mrs. Barlow's rested on the caprail. "Well, my dear Lady, unless _you_ would also like to begin dressing as a pirate, I suggest we retire to the mess, keep you out of the view of the other crews, as much as we can."

Mrs. Barlow directed a dry look at the Captain, then turned and swept regally down the steps. Flint watched her for a second, lagging, and then shook his head and followed. Billy huffed an amused breath and pulled his attention back to his work.


	8. VIII

With the Captain having gone ashore to send her letter and escort Lady Hamilton home, Abigail had spent the night alone in the salon. It had felt strange, but thanks to the heavy bar on the door, she'd been able to sleep, even if the usual nightmares still made an appearance, and the letter she had written to her father weighed heavily on her mind.

The prospect of breakfast on her own was daunting though. So far she'd gone down with the Captain, eaten at his table, and even with half the crew ashore, the dim crowdedness of the mess still put her on edge. The idea of walking down the steps on her own and finding a spot at a table—

Billy knocked on the salon door while she was still putting off the necessity of going below for the meal.

"There's only one sitting of meals when we're on anchor, and I noticed you were about to miss it," he said, stooping a little in the doorway. "Are you well?"

"I am," she assured him quickly, a little embarrassed by suddenly missing the Captain's presence aboard, the protection it had afforded her. She'd noticed the night before that the crew had been a little more at ease, a little less restrained with their language, a bit more raucous in their card games, once 'the old man' as they called him, had gone ashore.

She'd met enough of the men to not feel she had something fear from each and every one of them, but some had avoided her, or only stared at her from a distance, and she still remembered Billy's suggestion from the first day to not venture below decks. It had made her feel grateful for the bar on the door of the salon as she spent the night alone.

"Will you come eat with me?" Billy invited, and she tried not to look as relieved as she felt as she nodded her agreement.

She followed him down to the mess deck, the voices of the men drifting up to them as they neared, before erupting into a boisterous greeting of their Quartermaster — and a few polite nods in her direction, she noticed when she chanced a quick look around at the occupied tables in the mess.

When they picked up their servings of breakfast from the galley, Mr. Silver glanced between the two of them, one eyebrow raised and a significant look thrown Billy's way, but didn't comment. Abigail murmured her thanks for preparing the meal, and Silver rolled his eyes and doffed an imaginary cap in her direction before turning back to his galley duties.

Sitting across from Billy felt like a different kind of protection, she reflected as they ate in companionable quiet. After their raucous greeting, the men had gone back to their own meals and conversations, paying little attention to Abigail and Billy. With only one sitting for breakfast, the mess still felt plenty full, and with the Captain away and shore-leave for these men pending in the evening, it was noticeably noisier than usual.

She was beginning to understand them better as a whole, she thought, better able to discern the moods in their loud voices, and didn't flinch as she might have done even just a few days ago. It helped that for the most part they seemed to be ignoring her, more interested in their own food and conversations than what she was doing, tucked between Billy's hulking frame and the side of the ship.

"Do you suppose they've grown accustomed to me?" she asked Billy, just loud enough to be heard over the general din. "The crew, I mean."

He looked up from his breakfast to meet her gaze, then looked out at the tables around them. "'Accustomed' might be a bit strong. Used to your presence, maybe. Even then, you're pretty notable."

"Don't I look the part?" she asked, glancing down at herself.

"Oh, you do," Billy said, smiling at her. "Better now in clothes that fit you. Maybe still a little pale and scrawny, but that just takes time."

His eyes were sparkling with mirth in the dim light from the lanterns and overhead hatches, and Abigail realised with a little twist of her stomach that she _enjoyed_ being teased by him. She smiled and wrinkled up her nose at the latter statement but addressed the former. "Thank you again for the clothing, it has been such an unexpected relief to wear clothes cut for someone my size. And please do thank Miss Bonny for me next time you see her, it was very kind of her."

"I'll let her know you said so."

"The Captain said she sails on the _Colonial Dawn_ under Captain Rackham?"

"Yeah, that's right. They're still a fairly new crew, I don't know much about them yet, but Jack's crafty enough."

"Are there any other women in the crew, or just Miss Bonny?" Abigail asked.

"Well, Max over at the Inn holds a share in the crew, but as far as I know she stays in Nassau, she doesn't sail. It's a… complicated arrangement."

"Still, to sail with all those men, the only woman aboard. Is she very fearsome?"

"Anne Bonny? Yeah, I wouldn't want to go up against her one on one."

" _Truly?_ " It was hard to imagine anyone being much of a threat to Billy in a one on one fight, let alone a woman. "But she is akin to myself in stature, is she not?"

Billy nodded but said, "She fights with two swords, and she's wicked fast with them. I'd have size and reach advantage, sure, it wouldn't be a foregone conclusion, but she's quick enough to compensate. It only takes one good slice."

Abigail shook her head, trying to imagine a woman of her size being so skilled with her blades that she would stand a fighting chance against someone like Billy. She wondered again at the ferocity of women like Anne Bonny and Mistress Max and Eleanor Guthrie, these pirate queens of the New World.

 

After breakfast Mr. De Groot gathered together everybody but the lookouts and the cooks and set them to work, a couple of the men to do a quick deckwash to wet the planks, the rest to his rigging work plan. She hovered at the edge of the group, listening curiously to his instructions: they would first take the heavy sail off the yard and lower it, then set up the worklines by which they'd be able to use the masthead as a crane of sorts, then detach the topsail yard from the mast and lower it down to deck.

When the work began, she drifted back to the salon, spending an hour or so writing in her journal about the previous day's visit with Lady Hamilton and the letter Abigail had written to her father, but was quickly driven out by the stuffy heat in there. The quarterdeck, in the shade of the high transom, was much more comfortable, though she still prefered to keep her journal tucked away safely in the salon. She idly observed the men as they'd organised into pairs and gotten started on their tasks, until almost all of them were aloft. Turning back to Don Quixote, Abigail got absorbed in her slow reading of the story for a while.

"Come on, Miss," she heard, and looked up to see Mr. De Groot come up the steps. "We could use a hand on deck!"

She got to her feet as he neared, uncertain.

"Good!" he said, almost cheerful, "I knew you'd want to be helpful while you're aboard."

"I—what? I don't know—"

"Hah, you think you're the first to come aboard who didn't know jack-shit about sailin'?" he said, lightly towing her by the elbow toward where the railing sat full of belaying pins with lines on them. "Stand here. These are the topsail clews and bunts. When I call down to cast off a line, put your hand on the pin, and I'll shout when you've got the right one."

That's how Abigail ended up spending a good part of the day on deck, assisting with the work on the rig in small ways. Mostly it involved a lot of standing around in the sun, waiting to be called, but Abigail supposed she was better off than the men who'd been up the mast for hours. At least she could occasionally take a drink of water and wet her neckcloth.

Billy and two more men were all the way at the top of the mast, installing a heavy block and two thick 'gantlins' to run from deck all the way up there. These would be used to support the yard and lower it down, as far as she could tell.

Once they began to bring up the actual lines — Billy came down on deck and tied the rope to his belt, so he would be able to bring it up between all the rigging lines where it needed to be — it was her job to make sure the line came off its big coil smoothly and without snarls. There was also a lighter line with a canvas bucket on it, and sometimes she was asked to use it to send up tools and supplies and flasks of water to the men.

The day passed surprisingly quick with the work to occupy her, and when they got the yard safely down on deck by the end of the afternoon she felt just as pleased and accomplished as the men.

"Nice work, lads," Billy called, adding, "And Lady," with a nod to Abigail. "We'll leave the sanding to tomorrow's crew."

This was met with cheers, and followed by an impromptu water ballet as the men drew up buckets of seawater to sluice off the sweat of their work day. Made wise by experience, Abigail made herself scarce before things went any further.

 

* * *

 

The watch change was timed so that both the oncoming and offgoing watches could eat ashore, so dinner aboard tended to be a quiet affair. Billy, Miss Ashe, and Randall were the only ones eating aboard tonight, and Randall had been busy with setting a crab pot during the morning, so Billy had good hopes.

It wasn't an elaborate meal, just crab pulled right out of the pan, served with a section of lemon each, but it was as fresh as food ever got, and the catch had been good enough that they each had plenty. The three of them took their bowls to one of the hanging tables near the galley, and despite Miss Ashe seeming somewhat unsure in Randall's quiet presence, conversation was soon flowing.

Miss Ashe clearly wasn't used to how messy and complicated crab was to eat, but soon lost her reserve and put down her cutlery, like Billy and Randall both had, watching how they pulled apart the crabs to get at the meat and copying them.

"These types of ships work the same in a lot of ways, but each crew has their own way of working," Billy explained as they picked apart their portions of crab. "Sailing Masters have their preferences for how to rig in lines, Bosuns for how to organise storage, and so on. Plus the construction of the ship itself, Spanish or British built, comes with its own habits and quirks. So — I wasn't there at the time, but when our crew took this ship, they had to set sail immediately, and figure it out as they went. Not an easy task given that a ship like this is designed to be sailed by three times our number. We've become fairly familiar with her now, but there's still things we encounter once in awhile."

"Like the stunsails not being labelled?" Miss Ashe asked.

"Exactly," Billy said, nodding. "The Spanish Bosun or Sailing Master must have been familiar enough with how they did it that he saw no need to label."

"Or had in mind to make life difficult should the ship ever be taken," she mused with a grin.

"There would be more logical places to confound ship-thieves than the light weather sails, but perhaps," Billy allowed, smiling at her.

She smiled back at him and worked her way through a few bites of crab before asking, "Could you change the rudder to work the other way around?"

"Not… easily," he said slowly, thinking it over. "But I suppose that _would_ be very effective. Your own crew would have to learn it first though."

"Like some of the castles in England," she mused. "The spiral stairs all go clockwise so defenders can use their right hands while attackers can't — but I've heard of a castle in the north that was built by a left-handed family, and they built the stairs the other way around. Supposedly it was in their favour because everybody else was so used to the reverse."

Billy thought about how he'd trained himself to shoot left handed as well as right. It was useful once in awhile. He almost mentioned it, but habit stopped him. Randall could and did talk to Silver, and Billy's handy ability wasn't something he showed off — you never knew who you might have to take any advantage on. Better for that to stay quiet.

Randall had been listening silently and with apparent interest. When there was a lull in the conversation he went to the galley, and reappeared a moment later with an orange fruit.

"Nice. Good," he said, putting it on the table. Billy carefully split it in three, and they finished their very fine meal with fingers and lips sticky with juice.

 

* * *

 

Abigail retired to the salon again after dinner to wash, and then write in her journal and await Captain Flint's return from shore with the rest of the oncoming watch. She took her journal to the chart table rather than sitting in the high-backed chair at the desk.

Sometime later, the door of the salon creaked open, and Abigail looked up to see Captain Flint entering, clearly just having returned. He was carrying a waxed canvas satchel.

"Miss Ashe," he nodded.

"Captain," she said, closing her journal, still a little unsure how to be around him in these moments.

"Miranda sent a few things she wished for you to have," he said, indicating the satchel, and Abigail moved some things aside on the table to make space.

First he took out a long green stalk of a plant and laid it on the table, and she puzzled over its purpose while he carefully unearthed a plant of seemingly the same type, if much smaller, in a pot. He walked away with it a moment, and she gave a puzzled smile as she saw him place it carefully in a bracket by the big windows of the salon.

When he returned, he dug out two books for her and a small linen bag with what turned out to be embroidery supplies. Her heart kicked painfully, and she suddenly felt near tears, overwhelmed with the simple kindness of Lady Hamilton.

"That is— very kind of her," she managed, staring down at the fine colours of the embroidery floss.

"Then there is this," the Captain gestured at the long green stalk. "I like to keep a small plant for use while I'm at sea, but this is from Miranda's big plant. It should serve both of us for at least a couple of days."

"...Serve us?"

He drew his belt knife, and she tried not to freeze, tried to push down the flash of panic that seemed to be expecting him, still, to wave it under her nose, to delight in her fear like the _Nemo_ crew had done.

Captain Flint merely cut off the widest part of the stalk, and then handily cut the tough peel away from what seemed like a soft inside. When he was satisfied, he cut a slice of the strangely translucent stuff, halved it, and dropped one half into her reluctantly extended hand. It was cool and sticky.

"Rub it onto your skin, especially where you're sunburned," he instructed, putting his piece aside to somehow seal the stalk closed with its own juice. "It is called aloe — it will help with the pain."

When he took up his own piece and began to rub it over his forehead, she finally followed his example, letting out a soft ' _oh_ ' at how pleasant the stuff felt on her skin.

"The challenges of being fair skinned in this climate are not entirely unfamiliar to me," the Captain confided, "hence Miranda growing it."

Abigail couldn't help the smile that image inspired, picturing a plant by a homestead on the island, grown especially for the problems that came with being a ginger-haired pirate captain.

 

* * *

 

"We made good time getting the yard down on deck," Billy told Captain Flint, standing on the quarterdeck together in the rapidly darkening twilight. "At this rate we might even get the fore tops'l yard done too."

"Did De Groot _say_ that?" Flint asked, and Billy grinned, because the Sailing Master — trained by Flint's habit to cut the necessary time in half — was known to give extremely conservative estimates. If he was willing to commit to so much as a time estimate at all. More frequently all you got was, ' _It's done when it's done_ '.

"Not out loud, but I wouldn't be surprised if he's got it in mind."

"Hmm. You think it needs it?"

"It's not as jury-rigged as the main, but it could certainly use it, yeah. Needs almost an entire watch hauling to get it braced 'round."

"I noticed that. Bloody nuisance at night when we've only got the one watch on deck," Flint agreed, huffing a breath. "Suppose it mustn't have mattered to the Spanish, with the amount of sailing crew they had."

"Hmm."

"Yeah all right," Flint nodded. "See if you can light a fire under the crew and get it done. No need to tell De Groot I said that," he added with the glint of a grin. "He can tell me that he thinks it can be done once he's sure of it."

"...Or when it's already finished," Billy grinned, remembering the times De Groot had preferred to get maintenance jobs done on the _Walrus_ , sometimes even during the middle watch, without having to bother arguing for them with the Captain. With nothing more than, ' _It needed fucking doing, is why,_ ' when asked.

"Captain," Joshua called softly from the rigging of the mizzen mast, almost directly above them. "There's a boat coming."

Flint's eyebrows rose, and Billy frowned. Their own boat had returned hours ago, and the newly-ashore crew wasn't expected back before the watch change the next evening; the crew wasn't about to voluntarily spend the night aboard if they could spend it living it up in Nassau's inn and brothel instead.

Flint and Billy both turned to the railing, trying to discern anything in the darkness where Joshua was pointing.

"Figured you'd want to keep quiet," he said, climbing down to them.

"Good call," the Captain said, and Billy nodded in agreement. If this was an attack, it would be best not to show signs of expecting it.

"There," Billy muttered as he'd finally caught sight of it in the faint reflections of the moonlight on water. "Not our boat. One of the shore skiffs."

"Great," Flint said sourly, "somebody's going to try shit. You," he addressed Joshua, "keep an eye on them and see if you can spot any more boats coming our way. If it's an attack there might be more."

The man nodded and returned to his lookout perch.

"I'll get the crew up and ready," Flint said, turning to Billy. "If they mean to get us by surprise, we'll give them a _good_ surprise. You go get Miss Ashe and take her below. Stay with her as last line of defence."

Billy nodded, unsure if what he was feeling was disappointment at being denied the chance to defend the ship, or something else entirely.

"She's in the salon?" he asked as they both went down to the welldeck. Flint nodded before disappearing down the ladder to the below to get every man they had aboard ready for a fight.

Billy knocked on the door of the aft salon. "Miss Ashe?"

"It's not locked," he heard her call, and opened the door. She was sitting at the big desk, writing in a book by the light of a few candles. She looked small in the high-backed chair he was more used to seeing the Captain in, but somehow poised and at ease there. He remembered the first time he'd seen her sit there, just days ago — passive and exhausted and terrified, and he almost smiled when she looked up at him, open and curious.

But this was not a smiling moment, and her expression stilled.

"Is something the matter?"

"We might be under attack. Come with me, please."

She froze, eyes widening, and then seemed to shake it off with what he thought was impressive speed, all considered. She closed the book she'd been writing in and tucked it under her arm. Billy took the candle lantern off the desk and led her out and onto deck. The last of the duty watch were just coming up, armed and ready, and he felt more than saw Miss Ashe move until she was behind him, so he was between her and the fearsome looking men.

Once the steps were free he took her down to the mess deck, then aft, down another hatch, and into the aft-most section of the cargo hold, near the rudder. It was the driest and least musty part of the ship on this deck level, and he figured it would do for the moment. If things went badly for them he could send her further down into the bilge, unpleasant as that would be.

He hoped it wouldn't come to that. Making her await the outcome of an attack in the damp, cramped, pitch black of the bilge would have to be a last resort. He didn't even want to contemplate how that would be for her if the attack was successful.

 

* * *

 

Abigail forced herself to keep moving, even though her entire body felt numb, like it was somebody else's and she was just looking at it. Billy led her down another deck level, this one too low for him to stand up fully, and then went further aft, the small pool of light of his lantern the only thing for her to orient herself on in the dark.

She clutched at her journal and hurried to follow, to not be left behind here.

They came to what seemed to be a rope storage space, huge coils of hemp rope hung from the beams up by the low ceiling, and Billy turned around in the narrow path between the rope.

"This is a good spot, behind the coils," he said in a low tone, and she nodded mutely. He hung the lantern on a hook and pulled aside the heavy rope for her, so she could slip behind it. When she was settled he picked up the lantern and followed after her into the cramped little hiding spot. She jumped when his arm brushed the side of her shoulder.

"Sorry," he murmured. He folded the blackout shields onto the lantern, and the dark settled heavily around them.

It wasn't entirely quiet down here. They must be near the waterline, because the sound of waves lapping against the hull of the ship was very present, and the ever shifting, working sounds of wooden planks and beams subject to the pressures and forces of a ship. Nonetheless it felt like a weighty silence settled down onto her shoulders, and Abigail pulled her knees up to wrap her arms around them, making herself small. Wishing she could make herself non-existent.

"It'll be all right," Billy said, and she startled, so far inside her own head that she'd almost forgotten he was right next to her. "We won't let anybody hurt you. _I_ won't let anybody hurt you."

There were a million things she might have said to that; thanked him or challenged it or pointed out that it simply wasn't something he could promise. But his words echoed almost exactly what Róisín had whispered in her ear mere minutes before she'd been torn from Abigail's side, and she could barely stifle her sob.


	9. IX

Their breaths were loud in the close, dark space tucked between coils of rope in the hold, even over the sound of the waves against the hull and the creaking of the ship. Beside him in the gloom, Miss Ashe's breathing hitched in a way that was unmistakable as anything but tears. His own breaths were harsh and faster than he knew they ought to be. It was the adrenaline of an impending battle, he knew that, and on some level _annoyance_ that anyone thought they could attack the _Revenge_ in Nassau bay and get away with it.

But under it Billy identified the other, darker emotion rushing his breathing as _anger_ , a simmering hostility towards anyone who would think to do Miss Ashe harm. And for those who _had_ done her harm — the crew of the _Nemo_ had been smart enough not to show their faces in Nassau thus far, and in that moment Billy wasn't sure what he'd do if they did. Flint had thought it'd be _rude_ to kill another pirate crew for their prisoner, nevermind that it would have been safer for keeping Miss Ashe's presence secret. Billy wished they had set fire to the entire filthy ship and scuppered the _Nemo_ with her crew still aboard.

Miss Ashe took another shuddering breath in the darkness beside him, and Billy tried to still himself, to calm his breathing, to keep his own tension from radiating out to her. She was scared, of course she was scared. She had every right to be; this situation had to echo what had happened to her when the _Nemo_ took the _Good Fortune_. The last thing she needed was for him to be vibrating with anger, like a man about to do violence.

Of course, he would do violence to anyone who came for them down there, anyone who dared think they could take her from the _Revenge_ , but in the meantime it wasn't helping her any.

Billy took a few deep breaths, tried to clear his mind and think past the battle-readiness, figure out what he could possibly do to help her. The calmer she was the more hidden they would be able to stay, the safer they'd be, but he also just— didn't want her to be scared. She'd seemed happy earlier that day, working alongside the men, and she'd smiled at him over dinner. Given their current circumstances, Billy knew anything like their conversation of only just a few hours ago would be unlikely, but still, it was worth a shot.

"I've been thinking," he murmured, and beside him Miss Ashe jumped so hard he felt her arm brush his. "...about what you said at dinner, about changing the rudder to work the other way 'round." He listened to her breathe for a moment, then went on, keeping his voice even and low, "I figure you could do it with a couple of extra blocks in the right places, switch the lines to work the other side of the tiller. It'd be a few hours' work, no question, but it could be done simply enough. And it would be confusing as hell for anyone who didn't know to look for it."

He felt her tense beside him, her breath coming in tight little gasps, and mentally he kicked himself. They'd been talking about ship-thieves at dinner, perhaps a bit too close to the mark now as they hid from a possible attack. Of course she wouldn't find it comforting. Nicely done, Billy Bones.

"Is that— where we are now?" Miss Ashe asked in a hitching whisper. "Near the rudder?"

He smiled in the darkness, feeling a rush of admiration for her bravery. "Close to, yeah. Bit aft of us. The pulleys and lines that work the tiller are a deck or two above us, though. You did well, by the way," he continued, not wanting her to fixate on plans to confound ship-thieves, "with the helm the other day. I've seen plenty of first-time helmsmen not manage nearly so well."

"Thank you," she whispered. "It was a little frightening, especially when the Captain came up."

"He seemed to think you did pretty well, too."

They lapsed into silence, but he thought maybe she was not quite as shaky as she had been before, her breaths quieter in the small space.

 

It was hard to tell how much time had passed when there was a scuffle from the direction of the hatch, and they both stilled in their hiding spot. They were too far down into the belly of the ship to hear anything that went on up on deck, but this had been somebody below, Billy thought.

"I'm going to go check it out," he breathed close to her ear. "If I don't come back or call that it's clear, there is a hatch down to the bilges just aft of you. Douse the lantern and hide down there."

She drew a shaky breath, and he could just about see her little nod in the gloom. He briefly laid his hand on her shoulder, and he could feel the tension in her, the hitch in her breathing. He gave a gentle squeeze without quite knowing what he wanted to convey. As an afterthought he drew his small belt knife, much more a rigging tool than a weapon, and pressed the handle into her hand. Then he slipped out of their hiding space, drawing his pistol and readying it.

He ghosted up to the hatch, very ready to bring to a brutal end anybody willing to come down there, but there was nobody. After what felt like a long time listening, Billy quietly ventured up the steps. There was some commotion up on deck, from the sounds of it, and he tried to come close enough to the next hatch without exposing himself.

Suddenly somebody came thundering down the steps, no effort to be stealthy at all, and looking so familiar with the layout of the deck that Billy lowered his pistol.

"Billy," the man called softly forward, as if looking for him. Joshua.

"I'm here," he revealed himself, stepping out of his dark corner.

"Shit, okay, good," Joshua grinned. "We're clear. Bunch of assholes gambled with Muldoon and wanted to get their money back."

"Fucking hell," Billy muttered, shaking his head. "Alright, I gotta go—" he gestured in the direction of the lower hatch, and Joshua nodded, heading back up.

Billy approached the rope storage space with caution, unsure if she'd gone down into the bilge by now. It was hard to estimate how long he'd been gone — and how long that would have seemed to her.

"Miss Ashe?"

Nothing.

"Miss Ashe, we're clear. There's no attack," he said, pitching his voice low and soothing.

He cautiously pushed aside the rope coils and then he saw her, folded up small and very still. For a heart-stopping moment he wondered if she'd interpreted the knife he'd given her as a suggestion to take a hand to herself, rather than a last ditch defence weapon he'd meant it to be.

"...Abigail?"

His heart was in his throat.

Then he heard her shaky intake of breath, and the relief that flooded him was intense. She didn't move at all, so he sat down next to her, shoulder to shoulder, almost intimately close in the confines of their little hiding space. She was trembling, one hand wrapped around the handle of the knife and the other pressed in a fist against her mouth as if trying to contain things much too vast to be contained by a mere human body.

Billy felt at a loss with this, unsure what would bring her comfort if not the knowledge that there was no attack, that she was safe. He shifted a little until the bare skin of his upper arm was in contact with her shirt-covered shoulder. He could feel how cold she was even though the fabric.

"You're safe," he said softly. "You're safe."

She drew a deep, sobbing breath, and then all of a sudden she was moving, turning toward him, pressing against him as the knife clattered to the deck at her side. Her arm went across his stomach, and she hid her face against his neck, her whole body cold and stiff and shaky.

It took Billy a few seconds to blink away his surprise, to shake his first reflex of withdrawing, maintaining a proper distance. Then he lightly settled a hand on her back, cupped the other around the back of her head.

"You're safe," he repeated quietly, feeling the shudders that wracked her body. The skin of his neck became damp with her tears, and he fervently wished there was something he could do.

As she gradually calmed, the tension easing from her spine until her torso was leaned all the way into his chest, a soft, pleasant sort of weight against him, it slowly dawned on him that maybe he _was_ doing something to help.

 

* * *

 

Abigail slowly felt the echoes of Róisín's screams fade away, and with it the memory of the rough hands she'd felt on her own body, and the panic of realising that no matter how hard she fought and kicked, those hands were stronger and could pick her up and take her away without even any real effort.

She took a deep, shaky breath and became more aware of her own body now, clad in sailor's trousers and a wide-sleeved shirt. This was not the _Good Fortune_ , for all that it was just as dark; and the large, rough hands on her weren't grabbing her but lightly, warmly stroking her back and head.

 _Oh_. Oh dear. This was _Billy_ , she'd all but crawled into the man's lap, she could barely have been more inappropriate if she'd made a deliberate effort. And here he was, taking it in stride — soothingly stroking her hair, murmuring that all was well and she was safe. Patiently waiting for her to remember herself.

She hurriedly pulled her hand away from where she'd fisted it into the bottom of his shirt, and stiffly, awkwardly withdrew. He let her go without comment.

Thank God that it was far too dark for him to see her red, tearstained face. Not that it would come as a surprise to him to see it after she'd literally cried into his shoulder.

"BILLY!" they heard the call from two decks higher, the sudden noise making her flinch. Then, coming closer, " _Billy?_ "

"We're fine," he called back, sounding more sure of it than she felt. Right now she wasn't at all sure how fine she was. "We'll be up in a moment."

They sat there, shoulder to shoulder, for what seemed like far longer than a moment, but nobody else came looking for them, and Billy seemed in no hurry. Abigail dried her face with her sleeve, her sniffling gradually fading away. She was trying not to think about the way she'd crawled into his lap, clung to him, and hoped he'd do her the kindness of pretending it hadn't happened, so that she might do the same. A momentary lapse in good judgement, brought on by the stress of the situation. Surely she could be forgiven for that? She hoped she could be forgiven for that.

She took a deep breath, held it for the space of a few seconds, and then let it out. Her head ached dully, but her body felt like her own again.

"Ready?" Billy asked in a low tone.

"Yeah," she whispered, and he pushed aside the heavy coils of hemp rope to allow them both the crawl out of their little hiding space.

He offered her a hand up to her feet, and she was grateful for it when she reeled for long seconds, gritting her teeth and determined not to do anything so ridiculous as fainting. When her head cleared she found she'd grabbed onto his forearm, warm skin and firm muscle under her fingers, and she hurriedly let go.

He lead her back up through the ship, waiting patiently for her to climb the ladder on still-trembling legs, and paused when they were on the mess deck. Instead of going to the steps that lead up to the welldeck, he turned toward the water barrel, opened it, and offered her the ladle so she could drink.

The _Revenge_ had taken in water barrels via the boats, a laborious process involving a lot of hauling and cursing. Silver had said they would take on more before they sailed away again though, so while the crew was expected to be sensible, it was not as rationed as it would have been at sea. Knowing this, Abigail did not feel guilty when taking off the kerchief covering her hair and pouring the last of the water from her ladle measure onto it. She used the damp cloth to wipe her eyes, sighing at the cool of it.

"—don't care _what_ he thinks he's doing, she is _not_ to be kept in the hold," she heard the Captain's voice drift down, sharp with irritation. Abigail felt an odd surge of some indeterminable feeling on hearing what could almost be called indignation in the Captain's voice.

A man came down the steps, and Billy spoke up.

"We're just here. Tell the Captain everything’s fine, we're just having some water before coming up."

Billy didn’t rush her, but when she looked up he was watching her steadily. "Ready?" he asked again, and she nodded, her head feeling clearer for the water, and followed him up the ladder.

The Captain turned to look at them as they joined him on the quarterdeck, something fierce and unyielding in his expression.

"Bit of a tense moment below," Billy said by way of explanation, his tone easy, "but we’re all good now."

Flint cut his gaze to Abigail, looking her over as though for confirmation, and she realised suddenly that he was _worried_ for her, that he hadn’t wanted her to stay below any longer than absolutely necessary. She offered him a small nod, and his expression eased slightly.

"Tense moment for all of us, I think," Flint said, turning away. "A measure of grog for the men," he called, to what seemed to be instantly buoyed spirits.

The night air on her still-drying face was refreshing, restorative in a way not even the water had been, and Abigail suddenly remembered— "My journal," she said, turning to Billy. "I took it down with us, and I, I didn’t even think…"

"I’ll go get it," Billy assured her before her nerves could overtake her again. "And maybe a little grog for you as well?" he asked, smiling slightly.

At her tentative nod, he turned and made his way below decks, and Abigail looked up to find the Captain watching her again.

"Have you had rum before, Miss Ashe?" he asked when she met his gaze.

"No," she shook her head, drifting a few steps closer to him. "But I’ve had wine on many occasions, and whiskey once, though I didn’t care for the taste."

She thought he'd forbid her the rum, but he only said, "Best sip slowly, then."

 

When Billy came back with her journal, Abigail took a moment to return it to its usual spot in the salon, tucked under her few belongings in the corner of one windowseat of her partitioned area. She paused to splash a little more water on her face, still feeling shaky. She hadn't even thought to ask what had made them believe the ship might be under attack, and how it had been resolved. She found herself not wanting to think on any of it; neither the icy terror, nor the warmth of Billy, cradling her in the dark.

The wind had picked up when she went back out to the quarterdeck, and while late August in the Bahamas was far from what Abigail considered _cold_ , this breeze had enough of a bite to it that she rolled down her shirtsleeves to her wrists, and then went to join Billy on the bench he’d found out of the wind.

He handed her one of the two mugs he held, half-full of liquid. It was too dark on deck to say as to its colour or consistency, and she sniffed it slightly before taking an experimental sip.

"Oh, it’s sweeter than I would have thought," she said, taking another small sip.

"Cook’s recipe," Billy shrugged. "Silver’s got a bit of a sweet-tooth, so he adds sugar and some kind of spice, don’t know what exactly. Hard to complain, though, Randall’s recipe was drinkable, just barely. Good enough to keep the scurvy at bay, I guess."

She hummed her amusement and braved a slightly larger drink, then looked up at the night sky that stretched in a dazzling arc above them. Even with the firelight of Nassau across the bay, the stars were crisp and bright, seeming to crowd against each other as the moon began to set. Abigail still hadn’t spent much time on deck after sunset; after being freed from the underbelly of the _Nemo_ , it was the sunshine and bright blue sky she had craved, the dark still seeming to hold any number of lurking dangers. She was more comfortable now, on deck with men she knew, convinced of their intentions to keep her safe, and she found she had missed the stars.

The dark hold of the _Good Fortune_ seemed so very far away now, even her terror in the _Revenge_ hold earlier seemed soft-edged and strange.

"Do you know any of the constellations?" she asked Billy, though the silence between them hadn’t been uncomfortable, Abigail was somewhat surprised to find.

"Sure," he replied easily. "A few, anyway. Need them for navigating at night."

"I thought so," she murmured, taking another small sip.

"Do you know any?" Billy asked.

She shook her head. "I know the stories behind several of them, and I can usually find Orion easily enough, but otherwise…" She turned to look at him, considering. "Would you show me?" she asked after a moment. "The constellations needed for nighttime navigation, that is?"

He met her gaze, and even in the low light she could tell he was grinning. "What, helming and helping with the rig not enough for you anymore? Time to train in navigation?"

"Something like that," she said, hiding her smile behind her cup. In truth she simply wanted to hear him talk about sailing, about something he obviously loved so dearly. Abigail had always had a voracious appetite for knowledge, but she didn't remember being quite this enamoured of the voices of her tutors in London.

"Well let's see," he said after taking a sip from his cup. "First thing you have to do is find Polaris."

"The North Star?"

"That's right," he nodded. "Which is over _there_."

Abigail was already turning to look toward the sky over the open ocean north of Nassau bay before Billy raised his arm to point, but she followed the line of it to a star much lower in the sky than she had expected from the brief exposure to astronomy her education had graced her with.

"It's closer to the horizon the closer you are to the equator, so you can use a quadrant to figure latitude from that. We're about twenty-five degrees north here in Nassau…"

Abigail let herself drift, listening to Billy talk and taking small sips of her grog. She followed along well enough to ask a few clarifying questions, at least, and Billy seemed to understand her need for the easy conversation, as much a part of calming her nerves as the water had been. Eventually they lapsed into silence, drinking their grog and listening to the waves against the hull and the sounds of some of the crew at a dice game in the welldeck.

"What happened earlier?" she asked, feeling warm and floaty. "Why did we think we were under attack?"

Billy shrugged, his arm brushing against hers. "Bunch of nonsense, Muldoon won a game of cards and somebody thought that if he brought a bunch of big friends, he could get his money back. In the dark we couldn’t tell who it was, and the Captain figured better safe than sorry. I’m sorry it alarmed you, though, if there’d been any other way…" He trailed off, looking away and taking a drink from his cup.

"I think, perhaps," Abigail said after a long moment, "that I needed to face some of what happened, and then be safe afterwards. Thank you for that," she said, then felt herself blush at the memory of all but climbing into his lap earlier, suddenly grateful for the darkness. "Thank you for, for promising to keep me safe, and then following through on it." She took a long pull from her grog, and then found it empty.

"I meant it," Billy said, his voice low and his gaze sweeping out across the deck rather than on her, though the few men on deck seemed to be giving them a wide berth for the most part. "We wouldn't have— _won't_ let anything happen to you. Flint means to see you safely home to your father, and that's what we'll do."

She hummed in acknowledgement, leaning a little closer to his warmth, and thinking of the way he'd comforted her in the hold, the way his arms had felt around her, how light her head felt now. "With what we've each been through, I think you know how much that means to me," she murmured.

The duty watch chimed the bell, and Abigail didn't manage to keep track, but it seemed to go on for a while. Billy straightened up as if he'd lost track of time. Or perhaps he suddenly realised how close they were sitting — she was becoming more and more aware of what an intimate moment this had turned into, sitting close and sharing confidences.

"Well, I, uh — should get some sleep. You also, if I may suggest," he said with a smile, getting to his feet.

"That's probably a good… yes, I should do that," Abigail nodded to herself, smiling up at him. He reached out a hand to her, and she looked at it, a little puzzled as to what kind of greeting was expected of her. Oh! He meant to help her up? She slowly laid her hand in his, very aware of how much smaller and softer her hand was against his.

He pulled to her feet without any noticeable effort, steadying her with his other hand to the cap of her shoulder when the roll of the ship — and, if she were honest, the rum — made her sway for a long moment, his hand warm through the thin fabric of her shirt.

" _Ohh_ ," she whispered, a little disoriented by his sudden proximity. "Thank you."

He cleared his throat and gently steered her in the direction of the salon door.

"Goodnight, Miss Ashe," he said from behind her.

"Goodnight, Billy," she replied, turning back, and they smiled at each other for what felt, to Abigail’s hazy mind, like several endless minutes, but what couldn’t, in reality, have been any more than a few thundering heartbeats. Then Billy nodded to her, and turned and went below, taking their cups along with him.

She pushed awkwardly through the door of the aft salon, blinking at the brightness of candlelight reflected off the gilded surfaces inside. Captain Flint was seated beside the chart table, book in hand, and looked up at her as she entered. He held her gaze a moment as she stood with her hand on the doorknob and trying desperately not to sway, then nodded to her and turned his eyes back down to his book.

Though the Captain was already looking away, Abigail nodded in response, the movement strange and jerky. She turned and carefully made her way across the cabin, trying not to let the roll — or the rum — make her stumble into things. She gratefully slipped behind the sailcloth curtain, drawing it closed behind her. Now that it was finally come time to sleep, she had to marvel at how long her day had been, how tumultuous. It all felt so far away now, and yet she was quite certain she hadn't slept since waking up alone in the cabin with the door barred. Sleep suddenly felt like the one and only thing she had ever wanted in her life.

Abigail looked from her swaying cot to her shift on the top of her stack of belongings, then to the cot and back again. She really should change out of her clothes for sleep, loose and unrestricting though they were. She really should. But the cot looked so inviting, rocking there gently. She should really change, but— "Nah," she said to herself, and then clapped her hand over her mouth when she realised she'd said it aloud, suddenly remembering that the Captain was just on the other side of the partition. She held her breath for a long moment.

The far side of the salon was suspiciously silent.

Perhaps he hadn’t noticed. Perhaps if she slipped into her cot quietly enough, he’d think she’d gone to sleep and ignore the whole thing.

She crept quietly toward it, positioning herself by the long, raised side of her bed, trying to match her swaying to to the gentle rocking of the cot. It seemed easiest to just sort of _sit_ into it, so she turned her back to it, and as the ship rolled and she swayed, she leaned back and down and—

Abigail’s first indication of failure was hitting the deck, hard, with a surprisingly loud _thump_ in the relative quiet of the salon. Her pride was wounded at least as much as her backend, and she sat for a moment just trying to regain her thoughts.

"Are you quite alright, Miss Ashe?" Flint asked after a few seconds of silence following her spectacular crash.

"Um," was all she said, still not quite sure how to get up from the floor.

"How much grog did you have, exactly?" he asked, somehow sounding at once stern and amused, which for some reason struck Abigail as terribly funny, but she focused on answering his question.

"One cup, sir," she managed, "half-full — which is so it doesn’t spill over with the rocking of the boat, 'sit not?"

"Ship," he corrected immediately, as if automatically, and she giggled a little.

"Hm," Flint said, indecipherable. "Half measure for you, next time." And while Abigail was still reeling at the thought that there might _be_ a next time, he went on, sounding resigned, "Do you need assistance getting into your cot, Miss Ashe?"

Oh, she was going to regret this in the morning. "Yes, please, sir. I think that’s probably for the best."

He crossed the salon with slow, clear steps, giving her plenty of time to change her mind, and paused when he opened the curtain, almost like she was a startled animal he didn’t want to spook.

She smiled ruefully up at him when she met his gaze, unable to make her face do anything else. He came a few steps closer and leaned down to grasp her forearm and haul her to her feet. Standing, she wavered for a moment, and he steadied her with his other hand on her shoulder.

He leveled a serious look down at her as she stood swaying. "Are you quite sure you’re alright? I know tonight’s events must have been very alarming for you." He paused, as if waiting for her reaction. "Do I need to have words with my Quartermaster, Miss Ashe?"

She blinked up at him for a moment, confused. "No," she said, perhaps holding the vowel a bit too long. "Billy’s fine." At Flint’s raised eyebrow, she added, "I mean, he’s good, I like him— I mean—" Closing her eyes, she drew in a deep breath and pulled her thoughts together into the most coherent and least embarrassing combination she could possibly manage in that moment. "He’s been helpful, Captain," she said. "You needn’t worry. And don’t be angry at Billy because I’m so susceptible to grog," she hastened to add — had there always been that many syllables in _susceptible_? — "he couldn’t have known. I mean, I hardly knew until… now."

"Half portion," he reminded her, with that same stern-and-amused mix.

"Aye, aye, Cap’n," she said, managing something like a sloppy salute with her free hand, the unrolled sleeve of her shirt flopping with her movements. The ship rolled again, and the Captain helped her keep her balance, still bracing her with a hand on one shoulder. Her cot swung in and out of her peripheral vision, and she turned towards it almost sadly. "Why is it— How do you—" she started. "My bed is a problem," she finally settled on.

He almost seemed to crack a smile then. "There’s a trick to it, naturally."

"Of course there is," Abigail huffed. "Teach me your ways, Captain! I am ready to learn," she said, only barely managing to contain a giggle.

"This one way, at least," Flint replied dryly.

Abigail snickered, but kept it from turning into something larger. "Oh yes, maaaybe not the piracy. I’d make a terrible pirate, can you imagine?"

"The first step would be learning how to hold your rum."

"I _was_ holding it," she insisted, "And then it was just… all gone."

"Well, you’ve got the arguing part of piracy down already."

"Pphfft. Is that part of piracy?" she asked, swaying with a roll of the deck, bracing her feet wider.

"When the men get bored, they'll reenact a Pirate Court," the Captain explained seriously. "You'd do all right as an attorney."

"Arguing was part of my educa— education, the whole way I learned. It’s called the Socra— the— why are words like this?"

"The Socratic Method?" Captain Flint asked, and at her nod, continued, "I know it well. In which case, you must be on the path toward officer."

"Do pirates have officers?"

"No."

"I mean besides Quartermaster, and, um, I forgot Mr. De Groot’s title."

"Sailing Master." The ship rolled on a swell again, and Flint gave her shoulder a little push to orient her differently in relation to the cot. "We have a Bosun and First Mate sometimes too, but not officers in the Naval sense, no."

"Were you in the Navy?"

"Yes."

"Did you seduce Lady Hamilton?" she asked, looking up at him shrewdly. "Or did she seduce you?"

He sighed, exasperated. "Miss Ashe."

"I’m still standing up, aren’t I?"

"Yes, you are," he replied. "Let’s remedy that, shall we?" At her wavering nod, he went on, "The trick is to sit on the edge with your feet still on the deck, and walk backwards until you can swing in. If you time it right you can get the rocking of the ship to do half the work for you."

It seemed simple enough, and yet Abigail wasn’t sure she had actually followed everything he had said. She did as he described, but the next swell caught her on her tiptoes with the cot angled out wide behind her, and she wavered at the moment of pulling in her legs, of committing to the jump. Seeing her off-balance, Captain Flint stooped down and scooped her legs up and into the cot in one smooth motion, the cot rocking widely as she tumbled inelegantly into her bed, giggling a little.

" _Half_ measure," the Captain said, looking down on her with an amused shake of his head.

"The. Socratic. Method," she said, enunciating clearly as she pulled the blanket over herself. " _Classical_. But people kept calling it Finishing School. And now that I’ve finished Finishing School, I’m supposed to be Finished, whatever that means. Finished with _what?_ I hardly feel like I’ve started, nevermind _finished_ anything." She stared up at the swaying deckhead above her, considering for a moment. "And once I’ve returned to my father, after all this pirate business, maybe I’ll have to be _refinished_ , like an old piece of furniture." She made a face at the thought.

"You are not a piece of furniture, Miss Ashe," Captain Flint said gently, and she looked over at him, almost having forgotten he was still standing there.

"Thank you, sir," she told him seriously. "You might be the first grown man in my life to think so."

"Get some sleep, Miss Ashe."

"Goodnight, Cap’n," she said on a yawn, and was asleep before he snuffed out the candle on his side of the salon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last part of this chapter was partially written under the influence of grog -- or rather, good old fashioned pirate bumbo: 2oz of rum in 8oz of water, a heaping spoonful of sugar, a dash of nutmeg, a squeeze of lime. ;)


	10. X

Abigail awoke slowly and with reluctant effort, only gradually becoming aware of the sounds of the Captain getting dressed. The ship seemed to be moving more today, and the effort required to climb out of her cot didn't quite seem worth the payoff.

The Captain cleared his throat. "Will you not come for breakfast then, Miss Ashe?"

"No thank you, sir," she managed in a polite croak.

"Are you well? Do you require a bucket?" He sounded matter of fact, if with an undercurrent of amusement.

"No sir, I thank you. It is merely that… breakfast does not appeal, and that my cot seems safest just this moment."

"Very well. May I come in to bring you some water? Drinking will help." He seemed to reflect on what he'd said, then corrected, "Well, drinking _water_ will help."

"That would be… appreciated, sir," Abigail managed.

He cautiously came in through the flap of her partition, and she had a vivid memory of the night before, of his face as he found her sitting on the deck, too tipsy to navigate the challenges of getting into her swaying cot.

It took all her upbringing as a young lady to not hide her face in her hands.

The Captain handed her a cup of water, and she drank with relief, managing to rinse the sour taste from her mouth.

"You know, Mr. De Groot has a saying for when the crew isn't quite ready for the day after a night ashore," the Captain began very seriously, "He translates it from the Dutch. It goes something like 'You were a man in the evening, you can be a man in the morning.'"

"Sir," Abigail said with as much dignity as could be hoped for under the circumstances, "I may have been a little tipsy, but I am quite certain I was not a man last night, either."

 

Sometime later, Abigail managed to make it to upright and into the windowseat, where she spent until three bells into the forenoon watch before she was able to will herself into further movement. After changing her clothing and having a little more water, she did indeed begin to feel better. Randall was kind enough to give her some bread despite her coming to the mess long after mealtime, and when she came out onto deck she was cheerfully cajoled into helping with sanding the topsail yard.

It was Mr. De Groot's day ashore, and Billy had the men rig up one of the big stunsails like a shade sail on the well deck. They spent the day beneath it doing the maintenance on the yard and the big blocks, so at least by the end of the afternoon she wasn't any more sunburned than before. She appreciated the hard work, the way it kept her mind off all that had happened the previous evening, and she liked feeling useful. There were worse ways to spend a day than seeing to a much-needed task in Billy's amiable, easy company.

Abigail rolled into her cot shortly after dinner, exhausted and ready for sleep, but not quite managing it just yet.

There were vague shadows on the ceiling, and she knew that the Captain was still at the chart table, reading a book by candle light. The gentle sounds of the waves against the hull, the creaking of wooden beams, the occasional booted step overhead, and the turning of his pages all made for a calming sort of atmosphere that was well on its way to lulling her to sleep. It was hard to imagine that it was only her seventh day since they'd taken her off the _Nemo_. It felt like so much longer.

She was startled from her thoughts when the salon door opened abruptly and booted feet entered the room, and then heard a faint hiss as if somebody snuffed out a candle, and the salon went dark.

"Mr. De Groot, I am _reading_ ," she heard the Captain say, quietly dangerous in a way that made Abigail go very still.

"And you can read by _lantern light_ instead of by a fucking open flame."

There was a pointed clunk as a lantern was set upon the chart table with more force than strictly necessary, and the room was no longer dark.

"Look, I did not spend the last two _fucking_ months working to get this _fucking_ ship up to scratch only to have it _fucking_ scuppered because the Captain can't be arsed to use a _fucking_ lantern, _Captain_."

Abigail gasped softly, not at the wording but at the anger that would surely be its response. She'd never heard anybody speak to Captain Flint like that, and she could only imagine that Mr. De Groot was risking his life.

There was a long, ominous silence and she could barely breathe, her entire body tensed like a spring. What if he— right there, what if she had to listen, what if— a _body_ , oh Lord—

"Thanks for sharing that with myself and Miss Ashe, Mr. De Groot," Captain Flint finally said pointedly, voice harsh with sarcasm.

"If she ain't heard a pirate talk like a fucking pirate by now, I don't know _where_ she's been," was the defiant reply, and Abigail stifled a hysteric, terrified giggle, not wanting to draw the Captain's anger toward herself.

There was another long tense silence, and Abigail listened with her heart in her throat.

"Perhaps while we're at anchor, we should take the opportunity to remove the wall sconces and bring more lanterns into the salon, wouldn't you say, Mr. De Groot?" the Captain asked mildly.

"A fucking _excellent_ idea, Captain. Your leadership on shipboard safety matters is an inspiration to the crew."

"Get the fuck out."

After Mr. De Groot left, it was silent for long moments, and Abigail held very still, unsure of the Captain's mood and unwilling to risk drawing attention to herself.

She heard a creak as if he had settled deeper into his chair, and then the turning of a page.

"Well, I suppose if you had any notions about Captain Flint having the fear and respect of his crew, that would have dispelled them," he said with a sort of weary amusement, and nothing of the anger she'd expected.

The tiniest giggle escaped her, and she clapped her hand over her mouth.

"I wouldn't be too amused, Miss Ashe," he said in the same tone. "I seem to remember a sconce or two in _your_ corner as well."

 

To Abigail's surprise, the next day after breakfast the Captain collected some tools and began taking down the sconces in the salon without further comment. She tidied her corner and pushed the sailcloth curtain back to allow him access to the candleholders in that section of the cabin. With a silent look he called her over to help him, and they spent a companionable half hour removing any sources of open flame from the salon, before the heat of the day drove them out on deck.

With yesterday's watch having completed the sanding of the main topsail yard under Billy's supervision, today they would hoist the yard and put it back into place. She presented herself to Mr. De Groot to be assigned a task, and watched with interest when the Captain followed behind her, rolling up his shirt sleeves, apparently ready to be assigned work as well.

Mr. De Groot asked her to do much the same as she'd done on her first day of helping — standing by on deck to release or take up slack on lines, and occasionally haul up tools and water to the men working aloft — and put Flint to work in the rigging. It was interesting to see how the dynamics of the Captain and Mr. De Groot seemed to work; the former definitely appeared to defer to the latter's master plan for the operation. Abigail somehow hadn't expected to see the Captain with a ditty bag and rigging spike threaded onto his belt. Apparently even when you started as a Navy officer, you learned your share of technical rigging skills.

She didn't understand the process by which the yard would be hoisted; it sounded simpler than the twenty men working aloft seemed to warrant, so there had to be more to it than she could tell. She found herself wishing Billy was aboard today, feeling sure he would have explained the process to her had he been there. It was strange how quickly she had grown accustomed to his presence, to his easy companionship and teasing smiles, and the sense of security that only seemed to be growing the longer she knew him. More than once she caught herself looking for him in the rigging or just on the other side of the deck, some part of her convinced he couldn't be far.

By seven bells of the forenoon watch Mr. De Groot seemed pleased with the progress, and called the men to deck for a break. "Go eat, have a drink, take a piss, because once that yard is off the deck we're not sparing anybody until it's back in its place!"

At eight-bells everybody was promptly ready to start the work again, much to Abigail's surprise. The Captain led the men on deck while Mr. De Groot took a few men up the main mast with him, and the remaining four were put on guiding lines to help get the yard past tight spots. She couldn't contribute much to the proceedings, so she found a spot in the shade and looked on in fascination how over the course of the afternoon watch, the yard was hauled up vertically, angled just enough that it could be put in… she thought a sort of bracket, but she couldn't see it clearly from her position, and then slowly brought horizontal. This work was done by seven bells of the afternoon watch, but then most of the crew, including the Captain, went aloft to rig all the lines back in, and that easily took them to the watch-change at dinnertime.

She had avoided being on deck during the watch change thus far, the loudness of the men about to go ashore driving her into the salon. But that day, after cleaning herself up in the privacy of her partitioned corner, she found herself making her way to the port railing of the quarterdeck, watching as the boat returning from shore slowly came closer in the late afternoon sunlight. Before long she could pick Billy out from among the men, sitting near the prow and talking with someone she thought might be Mr. Silver. She would feel better for having Billy aboard again, though she supposed it must mean that the Captain was due to go ashore with the off-going watch. The thought didn't worry her nearly so much as it had three days ago when he had first left the ship with Lady Hamilton.

Abigail had spent more than a week aboard the _Revenge_ now, far less time than she'd been on board the _Good Fortune_ and perhaps a quarter of the time she'd been trapped in the depths of the _Nemo_ , though in truth she still could not say precisely how many days that had lasted. Perhaps it was simply the abundance of new — and unexpectedly agreeable — experiences that made her time on the _Revenge_ seem so much more significant.

She wondered how long this moment of suspended action would last. How long did she have left aboard the _Revenge_ , how long would they be willing to sit on anchor for her sake? It had only been a few days, she supposed her letter could not have even reached her father yet, nevermind waiting for his reply. How many more days like today did she have left, feeling useful and at peace with the crew — how many more chances for someone to find out about her and try to take her from the _Revenge_?

 

* * *

 

Even with her hair wrapped in a kerchief, Abigail Ashe wasn't at all difficult to pick out against the quarterdeck railing as their boat approached the _Revenge_ , but that didn't mean Silver needed to draw attention to the fact.

"Oh, look, she's waiting for you, isn't that _adorable_."

He said it pitched low enough that the others couldn't hear, but still.

"Stow it, Silver," Billy muttered back, scowling at him. "She's been at sea for months, she's just curious about the town, that's all."

"Oh, _please_ ," Silver said. "If you two get any more obvious, Randall is going to comment on it."

"There's nothing going on."

"There are all different shades of 'nothing going on' and while there are some things this might not be, it is definitely not _nothing_."

"And this is your business, how?" Billy demanded, still trying to keep his voice low enough not to be heard over the conversations of the rest of the watch.

"Have you forgotten who she is?" Silver hissed back, leaning in closer.

"Of course not. That's where the whole 'nothing going on, and nothing will' bit comes in."

"If Flint is to have any _chance_ with her father, we need her—"

"To have a good opinion of us, yeah?" Billy cut him off. "So? We're friendly. Leave it alone, it's helping more than it's hurting."

"I'd be more inclined to buy that if I thought any of this was actually deliberate on your part."

Billy glared.

Silver opened his mouth to say one last thing.

"Fucking _leave it_ , Silver. I mean it."

He finally leaned back, his expression speaking volumes but his mouth, thankfully, silent.

Billy turned his gaze forward, ignoring Silver best he could. His eyes inevitably found Miss Ashe's, and not even his annoyance at the man beside him could keep him from smiling at her, however briefly.

The last thing he needed right now was commentary from John fucking Silver. Billy barely had his head around all that had happened the night before his shore-leave, or how he felt about any of it; he didn't need Silver drawing incorrect conclusions when Billy didn't even know what the _correct_ conclusions were yet.

Silver was right about one thing, though: none of this had been deliberate.

Well, Billy supposed that wasn't even quite true. He had been deliberately kind to her at the beginning. Been polite, done what he'd could to put her at ease, both in support of Flint's plan and because it was the decent thing to do. Everything after that was just… _her_.

He enjoyed her company, he wouldn't lie to himself and pretend otherwise. She was clever and funny, with more determination and bravery than seemed possible to fit into someone so small. He valued their conversations not because of who her father was or because of Flint's plan, or because he thought something more might come of it. Rather it was simply because he liked spending the time with her, getting to hear her thoughts and watch her expression light up with emotion. Because he _had_ been able to be a help to her in the hold when they thought they were under attack, had been able to maybe chip away at a little of the terror left over from the _Nemo_.

It was worth it, for her, even if it left him with the unshakeable memory of how she'd felt there in the dark, curled soft and warm against his chest.

And when he thought about it like that, he realised how utterly fucked he was.

Of course nothing could happen between them, of _course_ he knew that. He suspected they _both_ knew it, Billy thought, looking back up at the quarterdeck looming tall ahead of them as they neared the ship. Miss Ashe met his gaze and offered him a small, private smile, then turned away from the rail in the direction of the aft salon. He couldn't blame her, watch change was hardly the most orderly time on deck.

He hoped he would see her again before the night was out— the thought was immediate and instinctual, and Billy clamped down on it. Just because he _wanted_ to didn't mean he should, and maybe it would be best to put some distance between them. He needn't be cold to her, or unfriendly, but maybe it was time for her to get to know other members of the crew. Then when they did return her to her father, she would perhaps be able to say that she had friends among Captain Flint's crew. With her father's opinion such a necessary part of Flint's plan, that could only be a help for their cause.

But Billy still couldn't stop himself from hoping he'd see her again tonight.

 

* * *

 

"Ey Miss, you playing?"

Abigail startled a little to be addressed as soon as she left the salon. The watch that had just returned from shore had largely washed up on deck, most of them looking like they were still recovering from their wild night. She spotted Billy sitting on a bench in the shade, giving her a warm smile and, when she glanced to the speaker and then back to him, a small, encouraging nod.

The man who'd addressed her was called Joji, she remembered; the first face she'd seen of this crew. The one she'd snatched that fateful lantern from. She might have thought to expect some resentment from him about that, but to her surprise he'd never shown anything of the sort. And now he was even, well, inviting her into their game?  

Joji gestured at something he was setting up. There were ten carved wooden pieces in a triangle setup on the deck.

"Finally got the time to make us a set. Old one got lost with the _Walrus_ ," he explained something she hadn't asked.

She was intrigued, and she'd met these men on the quarterdeck often enough that she felt comfortable being among them. "How is it played?" she asked.

"You stand over there," he pointed to a good ten paces away down the deck, where somebody had laid a short piece of rope along the deck like a line, "and roll with the monkey's fist,"

Joshua held up the thick rope knot he'd been making, broad bands making it only approximately round.

"It won't… roll?" she said, uncertain if they were joking.

"Well, the ship is moving anyway," Billy said with a grin, coming over. "So a proper ball wouldn't exactly help you."

The ship was on anchor, bobbing lazily on the gentle swell, but there was still a significant roll.

"Josh'll demonstrate," Joji announced, setting up the last of the ten wooden blocks and stepping aside.

Joshua went to the starting line, frowned thoughtfully for a long moment — waiting on the ship's motion, perhaps? — and then sent the rope ball hurtling along the deck in a half-roll, half-slide. It hit the side of the formation of blocks, knocking over about half of them with a clatter. The other men on deck reacted with something of disappointment, so she concluded that he was generally a good player.

"Do you want to try?"

She hesitated, very aware of the crew's eyes on her, the Captain's absence from the ship. "I think I'll watch another few moments, if I may. Pick up more of how the game is played," she said finally.

They seemed satisfied with that answer, and Joshua instead passed the monkey's fist to the man closest him. Abigail watched as they took turns carefully throwing the rope ball down the deck, trying to find patterns in techniques that yielded good results. Billy was last to go, and after he'd taken his turn he tossed the ball to her with a light underhand throw. She caught it with a smile, and took her spot at the starting line.

Combining everything she had gathered from watching the others take their turns, Abigail waited for what she hoped would be an opportune moment in the ship's roll, lined up her shot, and sent the monkey's fist skittering down the deck. Her score was, at least, not the worst of the evening thus far.

She was fairly sure that her presence meant that their game of deck bowling was significantly tamer than the men were used to. Billy and some of the others encouraged her to play for the entire game even when she offered to bow out, though, so at least nobody seemed to mind.

There was a bit of grog doing the rounds as the game wound down, though only a cup for each man given that they were on watch. Abigail grimaced at the mere suggestion that she might want some, remembering two nights previous all too well. She hadn't exactly conducted herself by the standards of a young Lady, and was determined to do better. When the rum-fueled singing began, she sent Billy a smile across the deck, then quietly made her way to the salon.

 

She slept alone in the salon with the door barred again that night, but in the morning her reluctance to brave the mess was significantly less than the last time the Captain had gone ashore. She knew Billy would be there, as would Mr. De Groot, and the men she had played the bowling game with the night before. Not menacing strangers in a shadowy hold, but men whose names she knew, in a place where no harm had ever come to her. A place lit by lanterns, because this ship was home to a Sailing Master who cared about things like fire safety, and a Captain who respected his crew enough to listen to his opinion, she thought with a faint smile as she unbarred the salon door and slipped out on deck.

Her heart was still pounding against her ribs as she made her way carefully down the ladder to the mess, her gaze darting around the dim place until she caught sight of Billy. He was sitting across from Joji and Joshua at one of the hanging tables, and met her gaze with a tilt of his head, beckoning her over to the empty seat beside him. She swallowed hard — as yet she hadn't eaten with anyone besides Captain Flint, Billy, and Randall — but nodded in response before making the long trek to the galley at the far end of the mess.

Mr. Silver handed her the bowl containing her breakfast, and held her gaze as she thanked him for the meal.

"And how are you enjoying your stay on our ship, Miss Ashe?" he asked. As usual there was a thick thread of sarcasm in his voice, but it was clear he was at least _trying_ to be polite.

"Quite well, thank you," she replied. "The crew has been very welcoming."

"Some more than others," Silver said, his gaze fixed over her shoulder. Abigail felt sure that if she turned around, she would find Billy watching their exchange, but she resolutely kept herself from looking.

"I am grateful for everything the crew has done for me," she said, rather than feed into whatever disapproval Mr. Silver seemed to be harbouring. "Thank you again for breakfast, sir," she added, then turned and made her way back to where Billy was sitting with Joshua and Joji, her bowl in hand.

He smiled down at her when she slipped into the seat beside him, but didn't interrupt the story Joshua was telling, about an incident in which he and two other crew members had managed to flip one of the shore skiffs in chest-high water and then spent the next hour trying to get it and themselves back to shore. Joshua was animated as he talked, and had a way of telling his story that made even the mildly disastrous moments into something funny, and she was soon laughing along with Billy and Joji as they ate.

With the Captain gone for the rest of the day, Mr. De Groot announced after breakfast that they would be starting work on the foremast topsail yard, bringing it down to the deck for sanding as they had with that of the mainmast. He assured them that it was in a better state than the last before beginning to divide the men into teams to start the work. Abigail lingered nearby, and as she suspected, Mr. De Groot once again asked her to help with casting off lines and using the small canvas bucket to send tools and water and supplies to the men in the rigging.

She never would have thought it would be so satisfying to be depended upon for this minor but clearly useful task, made part of the united effort to get the ship in better repair.

The work made the day pass quickly, and before long Captain Flint was returning with the oncoming watch, and Abigail was once again crawling into her cot as the sun set, sore and tired and strangely content. Perhaps she'd even done enough to keep the nightmares at bay, she thought as she drifted off to sleep.

 

* * *

 

Billy was roused by a gentle shaking, and blinked awake to find Joji standing beside his hammock, his expression worried.

Billy's sleepy mind skipped from _time for watch_ — no, he would have woken on his own, it had to be Middle still — to _De Groot needs extra hands on deck_ , but no, that kind of call usually came in rapidly worsening weather conditions, and the ship felt at ease, bobbing lazily on… ah, yes, anchor, the bay. Right.

"Problem?" he asked in a low rumble, mindful of the men sleeping nearby.

Joji tilted his head in the direction of the ladder and turned to go, leaving Billy to quickly pull on a little more clothing in the dark before following him up on deck, sleep tugging at his movements even as worry sharpened them. The other man met him on the main deck, nodding toward a pale lump leaned against the port railing of the quarterdeck that, after a few blinks, resolved itself into a blanket-wrapped Abigail Ashe. She was looking up at the night sky, and didn't seem to be aware of them.

"How long's she been there?" he asked Joji, keeping his voice low.

"Since just after two-bells. Came on deck quiet as a mouse, asked if she could sit out of the way in sight of the helm. Hasn't moved since."

Billy looked up at the sky, still trying to clear the last bits of sleep from his mind as he judged the position of the stars. "It's what, five bells now?"

"Coming up to a half glass to it."

"Right, thank you, Joji, I'll talk to her."

Joji nodded then turned and paced away to climb the foc'stle, as though going to check the anchor chain, though Billy suspected it was just as much to give him at least the semblance of privacy with Miss Ashe. He scrubbed a hand over his hair and sighed, then climbed the ladder to the quarterdeck, being careful to put himself in her eyeline and let his footfalls strike somewhat louder than he might otherwise at this time of the night.

She looked up at him as he neared, curling up tighter, then blinked hard like she was trying to clear a mirage from her vision. She continued to watch him as he walked over and sat beside her, back pressed to the railing.

"What are you doing awake?" she asked as he settled beside her.

"That's what I came to ask you, actually," Billy said.

"Did Joji wake you because I'm out here?" she asked rather than answering. "I'm terribly sorry, I didn't mean to be a bother."

"Not a bother, just worried about you," he replied, watching her face closely. In the moonlight her eyes were large and dark, fixed on him. "Joji says you've been out here more than an hour, now. Couldn't sleep?"

She shook her head, finally dropping her gaze. "Nightmare. Couldn't get back to sleep, and if I stayed in that cabin I was going to end up pacing and waking the Captain, and I don't want to… to talk to him about this."

She had her blanket wrapped tightly around her shoulders to ward off the overnight chill, but he could see where she clasped it closed, both hands were fisted in the fabric, knuckles straining.

"You don't have to talk to me about it, either, you know, not if you don't want to," he said.

"No, it's, it's different. I appreciate your concern."

"You can talk about it, though, if you want, if it'd help," he added after a quiet moment. "Or we can see about getting Mrs. Barlow onboard for another visit sooner rather than later."

"I miss Rosheen," she said very quietly.

"Who is that?"

"Róisín. My… my friend and companion. My maid. She'd been with me since I was fourteen, and she only a few years older. She was with me on the _Good Fortune_. She was…" her voice dropped to a whisper. "She was supposed to be with me for my new life in the Carolinas."

He'd assumed she would have had a lady's maid, but hadn't stopped to think what that meant. Of course she had had a companion traveling with her, and _of course_ she would have lost that woman when the _Nemo_ took the _Good Fortune_.

"She was so kind to me," Miss Ashe said softly, as if to herself. "We both got seasick, but she insisted on taking care of me, even though she was the sicker of the two of us. We stayed in my cabin for… it must have been more than a whole day. We were so miserable, but we took turns trying to tell each other stories. Until the Mate of the _Good Fortune_ came down and convinced us to come sit on deck."

"Did that help? It often does," Billy said quietly.

"It did help. I was so weak, I could barely walk, but they insisted we try to eat some biscuit, and the sickness thankfully passed that night." She directed her gaze back up to the stars above them. "Róisín combed my hair the morning of the _Nemo_ attack. I don't even remember what we talked about, now. Just that we were… happy. We were going to make landfall on Antigua soon, the Captain had promised we'd get fresh fruit."

She trailed off, obviously drawn into the memory of what had happened instead, and Billy clenched his hands with the urge to _do_ something, to help her somehow. He was well aware of his limitations, knew he couldn't undo any of this for her, or erase the memories. It was natural that they should come back to the forefront of her mind, and he thought it might even be a sign that she felt herself safe enough to think on this now.

That didn't stop him from wishing—

"I'm wondering if we let the _Nemo_ off too easily," he said, trying to contain the anger in his voice. "Leaving them with cut lines to limp for Tortuga. If we shouldn't have just killed all those fucking bastards. Sorry," he added, grimacing.

"No," she said, staring at the deck in front of her, her gaze unfocused. "It's difficult _not_ to want that. To want some sort of revenge, or justice, or _anything_."

"If we should run into them again…" He was pretty sure that if they met the _Nemo_ again, the Captain wouldn't need any convincing to mete out some belated justice. At the time, Billy had seen the sense in Flint's logic in taking the _Nemo_ with as little risk to Miss Ashe as possible, a matter of simple expediency and a desire not to kill fellow pirates without provocation. But now they had gotten to know her, and he thought even Flint had built up some sort of rapport with her— well, her treatment by the _Nemo_ crew made for provocation all in itself.

"I want to think that… that would help," she whispered, curling in on herself, and Billy clamped down hard on the urge to reach out, draw her into his arms and hold her like he'd done while they were hiding below. It had seemed to help her at the time, but she'd been uncomfortable with the touch as soon as she had come back to herself. He couldn't exactly— it was out of the question.

He hummed in acknowledgement and, after some deliberation, shifted a little closer to where she was sitting, until his arm just brushed her shoulder. Letting her feel his presence in a way that was hopefully acceptable to her.

She didn't seem to notice for a long moment, too withdrawn into her own thoughts, but then she sighed, swaying in his direction a little, making the contact more solid.

"I don't know if anyone will ever understand how different my experiences on the _Nemo_ were from being aboard here," she said softly, eyes closed. "Once I'm… back on land, I mean. To the people there, you're all pirates."

"And Flint one of the worst of all," Billy nodded. They'd always courted that reputation, encouraged it — it made taking prizes easier.

"Yes. How can I ever make somebody understand the misery of my time on the _Nemo_ , while willing them to understand also the consideration you have shown me from the first moment you found me?"

Billy knew with 'you' she likely meant Flint's crew as a whole, but he still felt a flash of… something… at the memory of first seeing her, small and grubby and desperate.

"At first I thought it was only about the lantern," she confided, "that as soon as I surrendered it, I would be carried off and locked into another ship's hold. And then you were so careful not to crowd me."

Billy thought about that moment, about remembering how he'd felt staked out in the sand, Captain Hume looming over him. How powerless he'd felt. He'd been aware before that his height could intimidate people, but until that moment in the _Nemo's_ hold he'd never so consciously tried to avoid it.

"We had no wish to cause you further anguish, whether you had the power to kill us all or no," he said softly.

She let out a long breath, and her head tipped to the side a little, until it was resting against the cap of his shoulder. Warmth spread through him, radiating out from that point, and they sat companionably next to each other like that for a time. If Billy was trying to put some figurative distance between them, this was perhaps not the best way to go about it, but in that moment he couldn't have made himself move from that spot if he'd tried.

The duty watch chimed five-bells, and Miss Ashe sighed and curled further into him, pressed against his side. He thought she might be getting drowsy, and that could only be a good thing.

"Perhaps you should try to sleep some more," he said gently, looking down at her. "If you think you can."

She turned her head to look up at him, still resting against his shoulder, and watched him for a long moment before nodding and sitting up slowly, perhaps even reluctantly. The night air was a cold replacement in the spot she'd just occupied, but Billy used it to jar his thoughts back into some semblance of reasonable order. He remembered what he'd told Silver. He could be a comfort to her, a friend, but that was it. That would be enough.

It would have to be enough.


	11. XI

A day and a half later found Billy on shore-leave again, eating lunch alone in the tavern. It had taken him far too long to fall asleep on the beach last night, until after much of the drunken noise had quieted down. He couldn't seem to tear his thoughts from the warship across the bay and the woman aboard her, from wondering how her sleep was that night. The night before that hadn't been much better, he'd laid awake in his hammock after escorting Miss Ashe back to the salon, too many conflicting thoughts and worries to let him sleep soundly. After two nights like that, he'd woken on the beach irritable, and with only a few hours left before his leave was up, wanted nothing more than to eat alone in silence.

Which, naturally, was when Jack Rackham slid unceremoniously into the seat next to him, tankard in hand. He caught Billy's gaze before turning to scan the sparse crowd around them, expression sharp in a way that stilled the complaint on the tip of Billy's tongue.

"You'll find, when you return to your ship tonight," Rackham said, his voice pitched low and his gaze angled out to the rest of the tavern, "that you're one man short."

Billy swore under his breath and looked to Vane holding court in one corner, clearly in full recruitment-mode, though he didn't recognise any of the men gathered around him as _Revenge_ crew.

" _Yes_ ," Jack said, holding out the syllable, "precisely. Not to worry, I managed to persuade our dear Mr. Dobson to join my crew on the _Colonial Dawn_ instead, using my own particular talents for recruitment. We'll make sure his secret stays secret. But he's unlikely to be the last of your crew to go looking for greener pastures, especially after a week in the bay with nothing to show for it but the cleanest topsail yards this side of the Royal Navy."

"What are we supposed to do? Take— Dobson's secret on the hunt with us? That'd work real well."

"I can't say that I am terribly familiar with your plans, beyond the broad strokes Flint outlined for Max. And frankly I don't _care_ , but Anne and Max certainly seem to, and that puts me in the uncomfortable position of needing to care just enough to not piss them off. Any idiot can see that sitting at anchor this long is unsustainable. You _will_ continue to lose men, and I can't possibly keep all of them from going to Charles, or elsewhere. And once that happens, it will only be a matter of time before that secret is out — and I am accused of not doing enough to help prevent it," he added, making a sour face before taking a drink.

"I'll talk to Flint about it," Billy said, carefully keeping his gaze off of Vane to avoid catching the other man's attention. "We'll figure something out."

"See that you do," Jack said, "and _quickly_. I don't know precisely what sort of hell you would bring on yourselves should that information get out, but I have a feeling mine would be an adjacent hell. I'll send someone over at sunset for Dobson's things, on the _hope_ that you'll be making a swift exit from the bay before your next watch change."

 

Billy spent some small coin on having somebody row him to the _Revenge_ shortly after he finished his lunch, knowing this needed to be discussed urgently. If the current duty watch was allowed ashore tonight there'd be no getting them back until the next afternoon, and with it the risk of another defection. The crew was definitely getting restless, he'd felt it building over the last few days. He'd been too tied up in his own thoughts to pay it much mind, but he could hardly blame them. It had been a rough summer for all of them, and going this long without a prize was never a good recipe for keeping a pirate crew happy.

It was a half mile to where the _Revenge_ sat on anchor, which gave Billy plenty of time to think. There were only so many options. Keeping Miss Ashe aboard while they stayed in the bay clearly wasn't going to work anymore, Rackham was right, they were going to start bleeding crew if they didn't take a prize soon. She couldn't come with them on the hunt either, that was bad on so many levels, not even worth considering.

Which meant she couldn't stay on the ship. Billy's gut twisted uneasily at the thought of her gone from the _Revenge_. But where could she even go? They couldn't go to Charles Town without the blessing of her father, and they had no idea when — or even if — that letter would come. With the wind in the south, as it was likely to stay, a return letter from her father might well take quite some time to reach Nassau, and there was no guarantee that one letter exchange would be enough to settle the matter. Miss Ashe wouldn't be safe in Nassau in the meantime, and he didn't fancy the idea of leaving her with Max or Eleanor Guthrie or any of their other allies in town.

He thought of Mrs. Barlow's homestead in the interior, how quiet it was, how distant. They seemed fond of each other, Miss Ashe and Mrs. Barlow, perhaps she could stay there? The remoteness of the place would be to its advantage.

Still, it was only marginally better than leaving her unprotected in town. If someone found out who she was, where she was staying, something disastrous could happen and he and Flint might not know about it for days or even weeks. No, she couldn't be left there unguarded. Flint had to go on the hunt to keep his hold on the crew, which meant someone else had to stay behind. When compared with going raiding for the first time in near a month, whoever was assigned the task would surely see it as a punishment to be left behind, which didn't bode well for continued loyalty.

He tried to imagine setting sail, standing on the deck of the _Revenge_ looking back at New Providence as it grew distant, leaving her behind. He tried to imagine leaving Joji to guard them, or Joshua. Tried to imagine being gone weeks at a time, with no hope of news, always wondering, trusting her safety to someone else's loyalty.

No. The answer was obvious. Flint might not like it, but it was the only thing that made sense. He'd see that.

 

The Captain was waiting for him on deck, expression making it clear that he knew Billy returning this early in the day wasn't going to be good news. Nearby, De Groot was supervising the watch in rigging the fore tops'l yard back into place, but he met Billy's gaze briefly as he came on deck. The Sailing Master's expression was grim, his instructions to the crew perhaps a bit more brisk than they'd been this last week, and Billy could practically feel the tension of the men.

With a glance over his shoulder, Flint opened the door to the salon and went in. Billy followed him through, startling slightly at the sudden presence of Abigail Ashe, standing beside the desk and twisting her fingers together. She looked up when they entered, worry clear on her face, and dropped her hands to twist instead in the fabric of her trousers — cut slimmer than her borrowed pair, though Billy tried not to notice.

"I came inside when the boat was spotted," she explained in a rush, as though needing to justify her presence in the place she'd called home for nearly a fortnight. "What's happened?"

Billy looked from her to the Captain. "We lost Dobson."

Miss Ashe gasped, her mind perhaps jumping to death, but Flint's expression hardened. "To who?" he demanded.

"Vane tried to recruit him, but Rackham managed to lure him away, then warned me about it. We're still safe there, but the next one we might not be so lucky."

Flint leaned back on the chart table, folding his arms across his chest. "Or this is just Dobson. Can't say I'm terribly surprised. Rackham and Bonny will keep an eye on him. Doesn't necessarily mean anyone will follow him."

"The crew's getting restless," Billy said, shaking his head. "It won't just be Dobson. Going this long without a prize, more men will start to consider the alternatives, and we've barely enough hands to sail her as it is. If we push this much further, they may well call for a vote for captain. We can't afford to wait any longer for Lord Ashe's letter to arrive. We need a new plan."

"Do you have any suggestions?' the Captain asked, his gaze flinty.

Billy drew in a deep breath, trying to calm his hammering pulse. "I do, actually. Long trip across the bay." He glanced between them then said, "I think we," he gave Miss Ashe a significant look, "need to impose on the hospitality of Mrs. Barlow."

Flint raised his eyebrows, expression still hard, and asked, "The two of you?"

"I don't see any other options," Billy said. "Can't stay here, can't take her with us, can't put this job on someone else."

"We could send another man with you, maybe even two or three."

He shook his head. "The more of us there are the more obvious we'll be. And whoever you send ashore, you have to be sure they won't defect to another crew and turn Miss Ashe over for the ransom. Or even simply get bored and go carousing in town. I'm not seeing a better option."

"And you're willing to spend however long it takes ashore?" Flint asked with some skepticism.

Billy had to admit he'd have been suspicious of any man offering to spend an uncertain amount of time ashore, too. It could take weeks, perhaps even months, to reach an accord with Lord Ashe. Surely not, though? Surely the man would agree to simply hear Flint if it ensured his daughter's prompt arrival in Charles Town?

He glanced to the side to find Miss Ashe watching him, her brown eyes large and her expression unreadable. She hadn't said anything since he made his suggestion, hadn't spoken for or against the plan. He wished she would, wished he knew her thoughts on this arrangement that would affect her so directly. She held his gaze for a long moment, then dipped her chin once in a small nod.

Billy turned back to the Captain.

"I'll volunteer for this, if you'll keep me on the books," he said. "I will still be working toward this mission of yours, so I still receive my fair share of what the _Revenge_ takes in the meantime."

"A crew's share then, not a Quartermaster's share," Flint said.

He resisted the urge to look at Miss Ashe, not wanting her to feel as if she were being bargained over. "Acceptable."

"Do you have anything to say about this?" Flint asked, turning his gaze to Miss Ashe.

She blinked, like she wasn't expecting to be asked, and glanced between them. "I don't see that we have many options. If Lady H— Mrs. Barlow will have us, I believe I would feel safe at her home, especially with Billy's presence for our security. It is an this arrangement I would be comfortable with."

The Captain watched her a long moment, then nodded. "I'll go ashore and talk to her tonight." He turned to Billy. "Leave for tonight is cancelled — I want the whole crew aboard tonight. Help De Groot get that tops'l yard rigged, then set the men to getting everything stowed away and ready for the hunt, that ought to cheer them. Meanwhile I'll see if Miss Guthrie has a good lead for us."

Billy nodded. "You want to sail in the morning?"

"I want to be well underway before the tide starts coming in at dawn. As soon as you've got your morning watch on deck, begin raising anchor. Row yourself and Miss Ashe into the East Cove the moment it's light enough to see, and we'll meet you there."

 

* * *

 

Abigail had been woken by the sound of the Morning watch relieving the Middle, and then shortly after heard the sound of many voices singing some sort of rhythmic call and answer as they began to work the anchor capstan. A restless feeling of dread and maybe excitement filled her, and she quickly dressed.

Looking around her little part of the salon, she gathered what few treasures she had — her journal, the embroidery things and books from Lady Hamilton, the extra clothes she'd so kindly been given, and put them into the waxed cloth sack the Captain had given her. Then she looked at her dress. The dress she'd set out in on the _Good Fortune,_ so full of hope for her life in the New World. The dress she'd despaired in, during her weeks on the _Nemo_. She shuddered at the memory of how terribly it had smelled, and then glimpsed a grin at the image of how it had been cleaned.

Clearly it couldn't stay behind, but she didn't think she was expected to wear it for their journey off the ship, at least. She carefully put her stays, shift, and petticoats with the dress and rolled it into a tight bundle, tying it off with some string. There, that should travel easily enough, and Lady Ha— _Mrs. Barlow_ would no doubt have guidance about how to bring it back to a wearable state.

She felt a pang of vague regret with the thought that her days of wearing the comfortable loose trousers and shirts would be behind her after today. On a homestead where neighbours might come by, she really could not be seen wearing such. Just the thought of having to wear stays all day again made her grimace. She hadn't known what freedom she was missing, before.

When she came out on deck they were coming up on the anchor, from the sounds of Mr. De Groot's calls. While most of the men were working on the capstan, Billy and three of his men had climbed up to undo the ties that held the sail packed up tight against the yard. She could just about see their silhouettes up there against the slowly lightening sky, easily picking out Billy's tall form as they climbed back down.

The early morning hour was cool, the light breeze enough to make her shiver a little, but Billy looked warm enough in his rolled up sleeves, maybe even already slightly flushed from the work aloft. Not that she could imagine a man like him ever feeling cold at all. She vividly remembered the press of his side against hers while they'd been sitting together on deck two nights ago, after her nightmare — and just a few nights before that, she leaning into the heat of his arm in a hazy bubble of grog, a bubble where the sheer impropriety of the moment had not permeated, and she—

"Ah, Miss Ashe, lend us a hand, will you?" Billy greeted her with a grin, lightly jumping down onto deck, and she yanked her attention back into the moment.

"What would you have me do?" she asked, putting down her satchel and bundled dress just inside the salon door.

"We're about to set the tops'l, and if you could just help with the buntlins…" he guided her toward the right pins with a large, warm hand between her shoulderblades, and she tried not to shiver at the feeling of it. He took the rope coils off the pins and laid them on deck next to each other, so that the lines were still on the pin by their crossing turns. He explained, "When I call to release them, start on this one — the clewlin — and quickly work your way aft, casting off the turns until these five lines are all off the pins. Then just make sure they don't snarl as they get pulled up, while we haul on the sheets."

Abigail was proud to realise that she actually understood most of what he'd told her, and she nodded, grinning a little. When the other men were in place and Billy gave the command, she did exactly as he'd said, and apart from having to hurriedly untangle two lines before they could knot themselves together, the sail set smoothly.

"Nicely done," Billy called from where he'd started to coil up lines, and Abigail had seen the men do this often enough that she started on the now much smaller coils on the deck in front of her, neatening them up and hanging them back on their pins.

Her satisfaction at being able to help, at finally getting enough of an understanding of it all to make herself useful, suddenly dimmed with the thought that these were her last moments aboard. Or at least… it would be the _Revenge_ bringing her to her father in Charles Town, assuming an arrangement was agreed upon, but she didn't know how long that might take. For now, she could already see the smaller of the boats hanging against the railing, ready to take her and Billy to shore. She wondered if she would miss the rocking of the deck underfoot, after so long. If a normal bed might feel strange to sleep in. If she'd gotten so accustomed to being at sea, had started to enjoy it, during her time aboard this ship, that it would take time to get used to being on land again.

As soon as the anchor had been hauled into its cradle, Mr. De Groot called the men to their bracing stations, and with united effort the crew hauled the yards around, until the helmsman brought the helm around, and the sail filled, gently propelling them.

It was a slow course along the coast, designed to bring them near the East Cove and within rowing distance, and she knew it wouldn't be long. Billy disappeared below decks and returned a short time later with a sailcloth bag with his things, which he put in the rowing boat, and Abigail passed her much smaller bundles to him too.

She wondered how he felt about leaving the ship. At least he had a place there, even if he didn't know how long he'd be away. They were expecting him back.

Before she was really ready for it, the cove came into sight — or at least Billy assured her it was there in the gloom — and Mr. De Groot ordered the men to heave-to, stopping what little momentum the ship had.

"Well, time to go," Billy said lightly to her, climbing up onto the railing and, with only a moment of hesitation, or perhaps waiting for the roll, stepping into the boat. He sat down, steadying its rocking. A couple of crew members reached through the ropes on the pinrail to hold on to the boat, steadying it further for her. Abigail looked at how big a step it was up to the railing. It had looked so easy when Billy did it.

"Ah, short legs!" a tall black man laughed, reaching for a wooden bucket and turning it over so she could use it as a step. "Better like this, no?"

She gave him a grateful glance, recognising him as the same man who'd helped her aboard. Bosedeh. Using the bucket as a step she climbed up to the railing, hanging on tightly to the rigging. Like this, the deck seemed far away, but the sea below was much, much further, and even on the gentle swell in the lee of the island she had to work for her balance. Abigail closed her eyes for a moment, willing her knees not to fail her.

"You're fine, Miss Ashe, it will be fine," she heard Billy's steady voice. "Just two steps along the railing there, where you can hold the rigging, and then you can sit down and come into the boat with me."

"I help you on the ship safe," Bosedeh assured from behind her, "I help you off the ship safe."

She smiled through her fear at the certainty of that statement, feeling a little reassured by it, and opened her eyes. It really was only two steps, with the sturdy handholds of the rigging gently angled away from her on her left. She turned her torso toward it a little so she could use both hands to hold on, and shuffled forward, moving herself along hand over hand, pausing as the ship rolled toward her, continuing when it rolled the other way.

"There we go," Billy said, sounding… proud, perhaps? "Now turn your back to the rigging and sit down."

"Uh."

"Hook the arm around here, like so," Bosedeh lightly touched her elbow and indicated a piece of the rigging. She experimentally stuck her left arm through until the thick, taut line was in the crook of her elbow, and right, yes, that did feel much steadier, she thought she could let go the death grip that her right hand still had on the rigging. She waited until the roll was in her favour and let herself sink through her legs, feeling Bosedeh cup her right elbow, until she inelegantly sat down on the railing, her lower legs already in the boat.

"There we go, nearly there," Billy said, and she could hear his smile even though the sparse light was behind him. He leaned back a little, counter balancing the boat for her, and reached out his hand to her. "Just slowly shift your weight toward me."

His hand was large and warm and far more steadying than it had any right to be, under the circumstances.

"It looked easier when you did it," she said, hearing how small her voice sounded, and he chuckled.

"I may have done it before, a time or three. You're doing great. When you're ready, go on the roll, all right? Just shift your weight forward and sit straight down on the bottom of the boat with me."

She gave a tight nod, trying not to fight against the motion of the ship, trying to think of it as breathing. That had been something Róisín had said when they'd just set out on the _Good Fortune_ and Abigail had struggled to walk on the moving deck. _I try to think of it as the ship breathing, Miss. She's not trying to throw us off her back. She's just breathing._

Abigail closed her eyes and tried to time her breathing with the roll, a slow in and slow out, and when she came to the next in, she pulled her arm from between the rigging, releasing her death grip, and leaned forward. From the corner of her eye she saw Bosedeh's large hand hover at her side for a moment, ready to hold her safe if it should be needed. Then she was shifting her weight into the boat, Billy guiding her with steady hands to sit down on the bottom of it.

She heard herself let out a high, tight, almost hysterical little giggle, and just for a moment she felt her face cupped by Billy's huge hands, saw the proud expression on his face, and she breathed out in a gust of relief. He was already moving away by the time she registered his hands against her skin, and she looked up to thank Bosedeh for his help, only to find what felt like half the crew at the rail beside him. They were calling farewells to Billy, she realised after a moment, their voices quiet in the pre-dawn light as the rest of the men began to carefully lower the boat towards the water.

"Don't do it, Billy!" somebody called down. "Don't become a farmer!"

"Hope this is better than your last stay ashore!"

"Take care of yourself," De Groot said to him, "I don't want to have to train up a new Quartermaster from scratch." Billy laughed and shook his head, then the dark outline of De Groot turned towards her. "And you, lass, with few more days I'd have made a sailor out of you. You know where to find me, should you be interested in continuing your education."

Abigail found herself laughing as well. "Thank you, Mr. De Groot," she said sincerely. She looked around at the crew gathered at the rail, indistinct in the faint light. "Thank you all, for getting me this far." Turning to Billy, she asked softly, "Is 'stay safe' an odd sentiment for what they're about to go do?"

"Nah, that sounds about right," he answered. "Stay safe, lads!" he called up to them. "See you in a few weeks!"

 

* * *

 

"I have no idea how Mrs. Barlow managed that with such poise," Miss Ashe said as Billy took up the oars. She looked flushed, eyes alight with the daunting undertaking and her victory over it.

"Me neither," he admitted. "A good thing that she did, though; I would have hated for her to have to swim in those clothes."

He concentrated on rowing, trying to time himself with the incoming rollers to so the boat got the best speed and as little splash as possible, so it took a moment to realise that she was staring at him.

"You think Mrs. Barlow can swim?"

"I— never really thought about it," he admitted, frowning. He himself hadn't learned until he'd joined Flint's crew; there'd never been reason or occasion to learn in London, and the Navy certainly didn't like to give pressed men options to get themselves away from a ship. Captain Flint had insisted he learn the first time they were in Nassau bay. Had insisted Billy couldn't come on the next raid with the _Walrus_ until he could swim to the ship from shore. Bosedeh, who'd grown up in a fishing village, had taught him. "You... can't?"

She shook her head. "Not something anybody would consider proper for young ladies to be taught. I never thought about it before I set sail."

"Seems like a more relevant skill now, I guess," he nodded. Her fear getting into the boat had seemed reasonable before, but now he felt a flash of admiration at the way she'd managed it. To him falling into the water right next to the ship while it was on anchor was just a nuisance, if rather embarrassing. To her it must have seemed like certain death.

He would have dived in to help her before she'd even hit the water, and so would Bosedeh. She had to know they would have helped her, but that wasn't even close to the same as being able to swim yourself.

He was about to suggest that she take the time on the island as an opportunity to learn, but caught himself before he could give the impression that he wanted her to, what, disrobe and let him teach her?

"Oh! I see them!" Miss Ashe exclaimed, and Billy turned for a quick glance to check he had his direction right. He could just about see two silhouettes outlined against the rocks behind the tiny beach of the cove.

It was a strange thought, that instead of picking up the Captain, he was trading places with the man; that he'd be staying on land and watching the ship sail away from him. He wasn't yet sure if he should be pleased with himself or regretful for proposing the arrangement.

"Is it strange to step on land after a long time at sea?" Miss Ashe asked.

"Sometimes, yes, especially if standing on a slope," he grinned. "You keep expecting it to roll back the other way."

She giggled, picturing it.

"I did not think I would possibly get used to it, when I first came aboard the _Good Fortune_ ," she mused, face dimming a little at the memory of that ship. "And now I scarcely remember different."

Billy nodded, concentrating on navigating the currents about the rock outcropping that sheltered the cove.

"For me the strangest thing is to put down something and have it stay exactly where I put it," he said.

"I suppose that _will_ be strange. And to be able to fill a cup, instead of only halfway."

They lapsed into comfortable silence as he rowed the boat in, the figures of the Captain and Mrs. Barlow now clearly visible. He idly wondered at how often they must have said goodbye, over the years. If this life was something she had willingly chosen, or if it had been brought upon her by circumstance. It seemed a hard thing, to him, to have to wait— to be alone and hoping for a loved one to return, but never to know when or even if this would happen.

It also seemed like a hard thing to ask another to do such waiting. Especially in a union of constancy and love, as, to Billy's surprise, the Captain seemed to have with Mrs. Barlow.

The cove was sheltered enough to have surf no more than knee-high, and he paused his rowing just before it, waiting for a good wave to bring them in. When he saw one approach, he rowed hard a couple of times, trying to match its speed, and let it carry them onto the sand.

Captain Flint had already stepped forward to catch the prow, holding it steady so the boat didn't sag sideways as the wave ebbed away. Billy jumped out into ankle-height water and held out his hand to Miss Ashe. She took it and then, rather than let him help her into the prow of the boat and onto the damp sand, jumped out at the side, straight into the upwash of a new wave. The water swirled around her calves, and she laughed.

"You've never been on a beach before, have you, Miss Ashe?" Flint said with amusement.

"No!" she said, smiling as the receding wave pulled at the sand under her bare feet. Billy could see her curling her toes. "All this time the sea has just been the… landscape, I suppose."

"We'll be sure to use your time here well," Mrs. Barlow promised.

Miss Ashe's face lit up at the thought, and Billy realised he was still holding her hand. He let go, and she hardly seemed to notice, so caught up in the swirl of seawater around her ankles was she.  

Flint turned to face Mrs. Barlow for a long moment, reaching for her hands, and something passed between them which Billy wasn't privy to. Watching them, he wondered about this arrangement between them; if she ever resented Flint for leaving, if Flint himself resented leaving. If he might not wish to stay on land sometimes instead. In all the years sailing with the man, Billy had never known him to be away from the ship for more than two days at a time, three at most.

Did he wish he could stay here instead of Billy? Did she wish that too? What sort of wordless promises passed between them in this moment?

Mrs. Barlow smiled suddenly.

"I will be fine — I will have company, even!"

Flint nodded, bringing one of her hands to his lips in goodbye. Then he let go and turned to Billy.

"Not intending to go far; I'll try to time it around when we're hoping to see a reply from Charles Town."

Billy nodded.

"You keep them safe." It sounded just a little less like an order than Flint might have wished.

"I will," he promised anyway.

There really was nothing more to say. Billy waded into the water along with Flint to get the boat off the sand, and gave it a hard shove once Flint had climbed in and taken up the oars.

They watched as the Captain worked the boat through the low surf and then out of the cove, and then, Mrs. Barlow briefly raising her hand to him, turned away.

"We should go before the sun rises," she said, leading them to where a sturdy horse stood in front of a wagon. "You being seen in those clothes, my dear," she smiled at Miss Ashe, "would raise some questions."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I was writing the conversation about whether or not Mrs. Barlow could swim, I got inspired to write about Flint teaching her, and then it turned out I have a LOT of Feels about them in their early years on Nassau. You can read about that in [Both Hands](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11494446), which is tagged with #Miranda Barlow/Captain Flint/the raw gaping absence of Thomas Hamilton, and also smutty. Just so you know what you're getting into.


	12. XII

The ride to the Barlow homestead was mercifully uneventful. They rode in the back of the wagon with Mrs. Barlow at the reins, both he and Miss Ashe looking too obviously like pirates to be safe riding in the seat, even in the dim predawn light. She promised to teach him how to drive the wagon and handle her gelding, Marcus, some time soon.

They climbed the bluff that overlooked Nassau in a series of easy switchbacks, Mrs. Barlow appearing familiar enough with the road to navigate it the low light. She paused the wagon at the top of the bluff just as the sun was beginning to glimpse over the eastern horizon.

"We'll be able to see the _Revenge_ , just there," she said, nodding, and Billy and Miss Ashe turned to look.

The ship was indeed there, her distinctive sails just visible as they caught the wind, taking the crew toward the trade routes north of New Providence.

"I hope you won't miss it too terribly much," Miss Ashe said quietly.

Billy glanced at her, and then to Mrs. Barlow, but the other woman seemed to be lost in her own thoughts for the moment, staring out at the _Revenge_. Miss Ashe was watching him intently, so he shrugged and leaned back against the side of the wagon again, as Mrs. Barlow gave Marcus the soft command to walk on.

"I'm sure it'll be strange being away," he said. "I haven't spent more than a day or two away from the rest of the crew, other than, well—"

Her eyes lit with understanding, and she gave him a tiny nod: he didn't need to elaborate on that point.

"Are there things about it you will miss?" he asked her. "Being aboard the _Revenge_?"

"I suppose there are," she said after a moment. "Though I have wished for dry land so often these last few months, it is strange to think about missing being aboard a ship."

"What will you miss about it, my dear?" Mrs. Barlow asked.

Miss Ashe shifted around to better include Mrs. Barlow in their conversation as she thought over her answer. "I was able to be of help with the maintenance of the ship, in small ways. It made me feel useful, and like I was part of something bigger than my own interest. I felt… challenged, perhaps? Pushed outside of myself, offered chances to obtain new knowledge. And I felt safe, there, I felt welcomed," she added in a small voice, darting her gaze to him and then Mrs. Barlow.

"Hmm," Mrs. Barlow said. "We shall have to endeavor to replicate those feelings while you are staying with me, then."

They lapsed into easy silence, and Billy closed his eyes, tipping his head back and letting his thoughts drift with the rumble of the wagon wheels. It would be odd to be away from the ship, from his brothers, but as the _Revenge_ receded in the distance, he found himself without a certain sense of dread he'd thought he might feel. He was heading into the unknown, no question about it, and he'd be a fool not to be worried about the challenge facing him, keeping Miss Ashe safe and hidden here on the island. But he felt as sure about this plan as he had yesterday. There was a strange kind of peace in knowing he was where he was needed.

The sound of birds grew louder with the rising sun as they wound in-land, and Billy opened his eyes to look out at the rolling farmland he had noted on his first trip to the Barlow homestead. On the other side of the wagon, Miss Ashe was sitting quietly, her face turned up to the first rays of the sun. The light hit her in a peculiar way, almost as if she was lit up from the inside, and Billy had to force himself not to look longer than he thought was appropriate.

There would be the challenge of keeping her safe, to be sure, but there would also be the challenge of living in such close quarters with two ladies for however many weeks this letter exchange with her father lasted. He needed to watch his words, for the first time in many years in an environment where cursing or other uncouth language was not acceptable.

That wasn't even going into the matter of modesty. It wasn't really a concept anybody valued on board pirate ships, where sailors frequently did their laundry on deck while bare-ass naked and nobody cared. Billy was used to taking off his shirt rather than letting it get soaked in sweat and need washing sooner. That kind of unclothed state wouldn't be acceptable now, and he needed to remember that so he didn't make the ladies uncomfortable. He would need to stay on his guard in more ways than one.

The sun was still low on the horizon when the stone gateposts of the Barlow homestead came into view. With an expert hand, Mrs. Barlow navigated the wagon into a small stable beside the house. By the time Billy was out of the wagon, Mrs. Barlow had also climbed down and started seeing to the horse. He offered Miss Ashe a hand down, then reached back into the wagon to collect their belongings.

"I'll sleep in the stable," he offered, acutely aware of the concept of neighbours. Unlike on a ship, where you knew yourself to be isolated and could see anybody coming from a long way off, anybody with ill intentions — or just curiosity — could come right up to the homestead at any time and see… well. Either they'd realise a pirate was staying here, or they'd be scandalised by a man living with two unmarried ladies. Neither could be good.

"Nonsense, Mr. Manderly, I do have servants quarters," Mrs. Barlow said, sweeping out of the stable. Miss Ashe followed, looking around with interest, and Billy sighed in acceptance and went after them.

The servants quarters were behind the house, a plain room that also had an internal door to the main house.

"If I am going to pass as your hired help, you had better start calling me Billy, ma'am."

She shot him a smile. "We really ought to get you a straw hat."

Miss Ashe muffled a giggle behind her hand.

"Now I am guessing the two of you have not gotten as far as breaking fast yet, so let us begin with that," Mrs. Barlow said, leading them into the house proper. The front room was much the same as when Billy had first seen it, nine days ago, but there were fresh flowers on the table. 

After a moment of hesitation, Miss Ashe settled at the table, and he stood around uneasily until Mrs. Barlow gestured that he should sit down too. She put out plates for them and then half a fresh loaf of bread, some butter, and a chunk of cheese each. Then there was tea, the scent of it taking him back to the kitchen of his parents.

He looked at the delicate teacup and saucer in front of him, and the several different kinds of cups Mrs. Barlow seemed to own. No two looked to be the same. Billy suddenly remembered Flint's habit of raiding the master cabin on the prizes they took. A fairly complete set of china would be sold to the Guthries, but apparently the odd cup and saucer made its way into the Captain's personal possession, and from there, evidently to Mrs. Barlow. He was suddenly sure that it was the same way with books, given the rather impressive collection present in even just the few parts he'd seen of this house.

It was a strange thought, that the stern, humourless man that had until not long ago had intimidated Billy, must have looked around prize ships with a thought to what his lady might like. He really was seeing a wholly different side to the Captain lately. It wasn't enough to forget Hal Gates, he tried to remind himself.

He picked up the teacup for a sip, his fingers feeling too thick to handle the delicate china, his entire body feeling huge and ungainly, in this place. He had to remind himself that he was here to protect Miss Ashe, not to have a relaxing shore-leave. His comfort was not required.

Across the table from him, Miss Ashe very carefully set her teacup on its saucer and watched it with interest for a long moment before raising her eyes to his. "It stays where I put it," she said, almost grinning at him.

"I could rock the table for you a little, if that would help you settle in," he offered earnestly.

"Will you also be ringing a bell every half hour throughout the night?"

Billy stopped himself short before something on the lines of an offer to _rock her bed for her_ could come out of his mouth.

"I feel it would be a good idea to discuss how this situation should work for the three of us," Mrs. Barlow said, mercifully drawing the attention of both of them before Billy's mind could go any further down the path of Miss Ashe's bed rocking.

"For one thing, the name Ashe can't ever be heard on this island. I thought I might introduce you as my niece, Miss Abigail Barlow, come to stay for a time from Barbados."

"Was not my full name in the announcement that I had been captured?" Miss Ashe said, voice detached.

"It was not, though it is not entirely impossible somebody did hear of it somewhere," Mrs. Barlow said kindly. "Perhaps _Abby_ would add a small extra step of separation? Your mother used to call you that, did she not?"

"Oh. Yes," Miss Ashe said quietly, perhaps a little startled. "I suppose that would be… yes."

"And Billy will call you Miss Barlow; that should hopefully be enough not to be suspicious, at least here in the interior."

"I'm not sure if I'd— Miss Abby would be fine," she said shyly, glancing up at him for a moment.

Billy took just a moment too long to figure out what to say to that, felt Mrs. Barlow's keen eyes on him, and settled on a curt little nod in acceptance, feeling off balance for reasons he wasn't quite clear on.  

"Excellent, then that's settled," Mrs. Barlow said brightly. "Now, my dear, we must consider your clothing situation. Don't look like that, I've no interest in forcing you into stays every waking moment of your time here, but I do have neighbours, and if your presence here is to go mostly unremarked, I'm afraid there will be no pirate clothes in your future."

Billy ate the last of his bread, feeling awkward with this conversation that suddenly involved ladies undergarments. Surely neither of them wished for him to be present for this. He pushed back his chair, about to make his excuses, but Mrs. Barlow gestured for him to stay seated.

"It will all be hanging on the line come washing day, Billy, so I suggest you find a way to get comfortable with the subject."

When he nodded, she continued to Miss Ash—Miss Abby, "You will need a new dress for church and for when you arrive in Charles Town, but for daily wear I believe I have some items that can be taken up to fit you. My shoes, however, will not do."  

"Tiny feet," Billy nodded sagely.

"I will not ask how you know that," Mrs. Barlow decided, while Miss Abby's eyes glinted as she looked up at him. "In any event, you will need shoes, and I see little choice but to take a trip into town to have you measured by the dressmaker."

"Into town?" Billy repeated, looking over at her. "Are you sure that's wise?"

"I don't think it can be avoided. We do have a weekly produce market near the church, but there are some things that simply cannot be got without going to town. Shoes among them."

"It feels more exposed than I'd like," Billy said. He glanced at Miss Abby and found her watching him, perhaps something a little bit hopeful in her eyes. "But I think you're right," he went on, looking back to Mrs. Barlow. "It can't be helped. We do have allies in town, though, people who know about Miss Abby," he said, only stumbling momentarily on the name, "who could offer help, if asked. Eleanor Guthrie might be one to call on in this situation."

"Hmm, yes, James did mention he'd spoken with her yesterday, and that she has promised help," Mrs. Barlow said. "And her tavern might be the best place to stable Marcus while we're in town."

Billy nodded. "When would you hope to go? Later today?"

"Oh, no," Mrs. Barlow said. "First we must assemble something suitable for Abby to wear into town. Tomorrow, I think, or perhaps the day after that."

 

After breakfast the ladies disappeared into Mrs. Barlow's room to see about clothing that Miss Ashe — Miss _Abby_ , he _would_ get used to thinking and saying it without being so aware of the intimacy of it, he really would — could wear in the interim.

Billy took the time to walk around the homestead, first exploring the house, taking note of its defensible aspects and where it was vulnerable, and then walking around the gardens. Mrs. Barlow had a very significant vegetable garden that looked like it took a lot of work; he would not be surprised to find himself getting well acquainted with a spade over the next weeks.

The house was set back from the road, but it could still be approached without being seen more easily than he was comfortable with. Why didn't Mrs. Barlow have a dog? It really seemed like there ought to be one to guard the house, or at the least warn if anybody approached.

Along with the safety situation he took note of anything that looked in disrepair, determined to not allow himself to be idle in the weeks he expected to be here. He was a decent carpenter, he could certainly manage to leave that propped-up shed wall and the crumbling porch railing in better state than they were now.

He returned to the small room Mrs. Barlow had set aside for him, unpacked his few belongings into the dresser under the window, then gave himself a once-over. He undeniably looked like a pirate, but he realised it was mostly in the details. The weapons, obviously, he shouldn't be seen carrying about, but the more hidden ones he'd keep on him at all times. The wide belt had to go too, and the beads he'd picked up over time.

What was left was fairly ordinary looking, and shirtsleeves rolled for sailing looked much the same as those rolled for farmwork. He'd never been much of one for waistcoats, but maybe he should consider it, if it'd help him blend in — though he would have to wait for the next time the _Revenge_ was in port to be seen at any of the shops in Nassau, he realised. Being recognised while the ship was so obviously not in the bay would only raise dangerous questions.

Billy made his way back toward the main part of the house, and spent a few minutes examining the front room, the entrances and sightlines from the windows. He could hear Mrs. Barlow and Miss Abby talking down the hall, their voices indistinct through the walls, but something easy in their cadence and tone, and he found himself smiling out at the brightening front yard. His comfort wasn't required, and he knew for fucking sure it would be challenged in the next few weeks — but if his stay here could include moments like this, well focused on his duties with the happy sounds of Miss Abby in the background, his task would hardly be a burden.

He heard them coming before they rounded the corner, and turned toward the hallway in time to see them enter. Miss Abby was wearing a voluminous blouse and a skirt that looked like it might be rolled at the waistband, in the quick glance Billy allowed himself before meeting her gaze. The kerchief covering her hair was gone, and instead her long dark hair was pulled back in a single tidy braid. He'd gotten so used to seeing her in sailor's trousers that this was almost a shock, by far the most ladylike he'd seen her.

She smiled when she caught sight of him, adjusted her path to come closer to him. "There are chores involving animals, I'm told," she said, clearly delighted by the prospect. She turned to follow Mrs. Barlow out into the yard, glancing at him over her shoulder in a silent question, and he followed after willingly.

 

"I'm surprised you don't have a dog, ma'am," he said to Mrs. Barlow later, as the three of them were working in the garden. "Seems like the kind of place that could really use a guard dog."

"I've had strays show up, but even if I feed them they tend to roam sooner or later. You're right, I really could use a dog. Both to guard and," there was a rueful twist to her lips, "to keep me company once you two are gone."

Billy thought about that, about this lively woman alone on this isolated homestead with her books and her teacups and Captain Flint visiting, what, a few days a month, at the very most? Mrs. Barlow, from what he'd seen of her so far, did not seem like the retiring type who might enjoy such solitude. Yet from what he knew, that was exactly the situation she'd been in for the past however many years.

Was it a life freely chosen? Did she resent Flint for leaving her here alone? Billy wondered if he would be able to leave somebody he loved to this kind of life. A safe life, but what seemed to him, dreadfully lonely too. This was why pirates didn't take wives, as a rule. What kind of life did they have to offer, always waiting, always outside of society? And that would be if he ever managed to save enough money to keep a house in the first place, which — well, it was hard to imagine, especially with the Urca gold out of their reach.

He wondered if, should the hoped for accord with Lord Ashe come to be, Mrs. Barlow might not prefer to stay in Charles Town. She clearly enjoyed Miss Abby's company, and vice versa, and Charles Town would have some sort of polite society where she might find herself among equals. If Flint could convince Miss Abby's father to back the pardons plan, if they could convince the powers in London to sign onto such a plan, the day would come when they'd all be pardoned men, free to return to society. Perhaps then Flint could go to Charles Town, too.

Billy hadn't given much thought to what he would do if he received the King's pardon, if all crimes committed on the Account were wiped from his record. He couldn't imagine returning to London, pardoned or no, couldn't imagine any life that didn't include a vast majority of his time spent at sea. He'd sooner die than go near the Navy again, but there were other ways to make a living as a sailor. Still, the success of the Captain's plan seemed like such a remote possibility, the minds of so many Lords to change to bring the pardon into being, and Billy knew better than to bet on Flint's long-shot schemes.

It was pointless to speculate, in any case, pointless to try to keep up with whatever chess game the Captain was playing. For now Billy's task was clear, and in need of his undivided attention.

 

The next morning, the dress they had spent the evening adjusting was declared fit for town, her borrowed slippers overlarge but good enough for the time it would take them to get to the cordwainer — the mention of which had Miss Abby seeking his gaze with an amused glint in her eyes. They left for town shortly after breakfast, and as promised Mrs. Barlow took the opportunity to teach Billy how to drive the cart.

"Just click your tongue, don't use the reins like that," Mrs. Barlow said, watching with a critical eye as Billy took the reins and prepared to slap them against the horse's back. It wasn't like he'd ever had reason or opportunity to learn to drive a horse and cart, but if they were seen in the wagon here in the Interior, it really wouldn't do for Mrs. Barlow to be seen driving her farmhand.

Billy clicked his tongue, which did indeed set the horse into motion, though it swished its tail in what seemed like an irritated manner.

"When you command him forward, put your hands forward too, or you'll drive him up against the bit. His mouth is sensitive, he'll go much better if you guide him with soft hands."

"Right."

Billy concentrated on guiding the horse with a light touch, and Marcus settled into a calm trot, head lowering in relaxation as he felt no more tugging on the reins.

 

They stopped at the top of the hill leading down into town, the vantage point offering an unobstructed view of the bay and the ships on anchor there. Billy pointed them out one at a time, taking the moment to consider what risks the various crews posed.

"The _Colonial Dawn_ is Jack Rackham's crew," he started, gesturing to the ship.

"With Anne Bonny?" Miss Abby asked.

"Right. Not sure about the crew, but Jack and Anne and Max all know about you, and have promised to keep the secret. If anything happens and I'm not about, get to one of them — at the Inn as a last line of defense."

Not that he liked the idea of sending them to the Inn and the brothel that made its home there, but if it came to it, it'd be better than the alternative.

"The _Ranger,_ over there, is in a lot these days. She's only making short trips from what I can tell. Captain is Charles Vane. He's a…" Billy hesitated. Decent man? Vane was a hard man to be summarised in so few words, and Billy's concept of a decent man might not match that of the ladies. "He wouldn't harm you, I don't think," he settled on. "But his crew are shitheads — excuse me — uh, a bit rough, even for pirates. If they found out about you, he might have to take you just to make sure he doesn't lose his captaincy."  

Miss Abby looked alarmed for a moment, then nodded slightly.

"That barquentine over there is the _Caesar_ , captained by Mr. Scott. He worked with Miss Guthrie until fairly recently; used to be her father's slave, I believe. His is one of the ships that take Miss Guthrie's wares to ports to sell it on. He likely doesn't know about you, as far as I know, but he's a good man, I don't believe he'd let you come to harm."

Billy didn't know the fine of the situation with Miss Guthrie and Mr. Scott, or why Mr. Scott had left, but presumably they had reconciled after his return, for him to be captaining a ship so important to her consortium.

"The _Seabreeze_ and the _Tortoise_ are the sloops over there," he went on. "I don't know their crews as well, they tend to stay close to their camps on the beach…"

 

* * *

 

Abigail's sense of excitement waned as they made their way down the hill into town, following Billy's comments on the ships in the bay. She appreciated how seriously he took her security, but nothing quite dampened her mood like being reminded that around any corner could lurk men who would happily sell her to her father for profit.

She tried not to shrink in on herself on the bench of the wagon, tried to sit tall and proud in her borrowed dress with its hastily taken up hem. She'd been eager to see Nassau in person, at last, but the reality of the danger she was in was beginning to take over. One whisper of her name, one wrong person paying attention, and she might be dragged away onto another pirate ship, to spend months more in a dark hold.

Captain Flint might try to rescue her again, she thought, but she also understood the limitations on what he could do much better now. He might want to, and so would Billy, she imagined. However, he'd already expended significant goodwill on the part of his crew on rescuing her the first time, all on the tenuous hope that getting her home would help an accord with her father into being. No financial gain, and not the sort of short-term payoff that the men would go for. If he pushed the limits of his crew's willingness too far, he risked getting voted out.

On Billy's insistence they left him on the outskirts of the town and then made their way down to the tavern yard. The stable hand had apparently already warned somebody of their arrival, because by the time they entered the tavern via the back entrance, Miss Guthrie was waiting for them.

"Welcome!" she greeted. "I have a private parlour upstairs for your use."

Miss Guthrie was indeed only a few years older than Abigail, only slightly taller, and yet carried herself with a self-possession and utter confidence that Abigail herself could only dream of. She remembered Billy's mention that this woman ran half the island, and had no trouble believing it.

Once installed in a spacious room with tea, they spoke for a while, Abigail trying not to be too in awe of this woman who was so obviously and comfortably of consequence in this place.

"I'm so glad Captain Flint was able to find the _Nemo_ and rescue you," Miss Guthrie said, smiling in a way that seemed sincere.

Abigail was aware that this wasn't just about her personally, that this woman supported the plan to reach an accord with her father because it would benefit her. Yet she also seemed genuine in her care.

"I have wondered — is there any chance of them showing up here, looking for me?"

Miss Guthrie — 'please, call me Eleanor' — considered it for a long moment.

"I blacklisted them for trade years ago, and I think they'd consider the risk of running into the _Revenge_ too great to take. Let's just hope they realise they got off lightly and will leave it at that. If they spread word that they thought you were on the island, that could create some trouble for us."

Abigail pictured dozens of pirate ships converging on the island, dozens of crews roaming around hunting for their prize. For her. She shuddered, thinking back on the conversation with Billy, on her confession that she wished they'd just sent the ship and its crew to the depths. A young Lady was not supposed to think such things, was not supposed to wish for the deaths of thirty men.

"Captain Flint said you might need some assistance with practical matters. What can I help with?" Eleanor asked.

Abigail tried to shake off her unease. Miranda glanced at her and answered instead.

"She needs clothes, both a new dress and some practical everyday things for around the farm. And most urgently, shoes."

Eleanor glanced at Abigail's feet, in their too-big slippers, and smiled.

"I do still have my— the dress I— set out with," Abigail settled on. "I think it can be repaired, though I'm not sure if I could ever…" She could still feel the way it had constrained her at night because she hadn't dared to take it off, how it had gradually grown loose as she lost weight. She could still vividly remember the way it had smelled. She hadn't expected to feel such horror at the idea of wearing it once it was mended, but now that it came to it...

"Oh, my dear, no, I wouldn't ask you to wear that dress ever again," Miranda said, and Abigail tried not to sag in relief.  

"If it can be mended enough to sell on, perhaps the dressmaker would be willing to take it as partial payment," Eleanor suggested. "Let me send somebody to Mrs. Tilley so she'll be expecting you and you won't have to wait. As for practical things, I will see if I have anything you can use."

They had more tea while Eleanor left to arrange matters, and then a short time later a serving girl brought in a small stack of clothes.

Abigail looked through the clothing. Skirts, blouses and practical vests and jackets, not as constricting as stays, but respectable looking enough, she thought. Having to give up the freedom of her pirate clothes did not seem quite as much of a sacrifice if these were her options for most of the time.

Until she would go to Charles Town.

Eleanor's return disrupted her curiously sinking mood.

"Mrs. Tilley will have time for you shortly," she announced. "Captain Flint said he was leaving one of his men with you for security?"

Miranda nodded. "It seems best that we're not seen to be together with him, so we dropped him off at the edge of town, and he'll be keeping an eye on us from a distance."

"I can provide you with an escort while you're in town. Most ladies who come from the interior bring somebody; I would not recommend going around on your own."

Abigail nodded in acceptance.

"Another matter I wonder if you could advise on," Miranda said. "It has been pointed out to me that I could really do with a guard dog. Would you know of anybody who has puppies?"

Eleanor thought on this for a moment.

"Strikes me that a puppy isn't going to do you much good right now," she said, with a glance to Abigail that clearly meant 'when you need it most'. "If you'd consider an adult, I might know one. Cooper's wife's been complaining that one of their dogs has taken to barking every time somebody comes past their alley. Might be good on a farm, but in the town that's… really not ideal."

"If it's a dog that could get used to new people and a new place, that sounds like it might work."

"Let me send somebody while you're at the dressmaker's, see if she has time to come by with the dog."

 

When they got downstairs they were approached by a large man with fearsome scars on the side of his face. He carried a pistol and a cutlass.

"This is Babatunde," Eleanor introduced him. "He has agreed to escort you for the afternoon."

Babatunde gave them a nod.

"You don't mind waiting at the dressmaker's?" Miranda asked, with just the slightest teasing tilt to her lips. "We might be a while."

"I have _much_ patience," he said, eyes crinkling a little in amusement, and suddenly he didn't look so fearsome anymore to Abigail's eyes.

 

* * *

 

Billy stuck to the back alleyways and kept his head down. When Mrs. Barlow and Miss Ashe exited the tavern in the company of one of Miss Guthrie's men, Billy shrank back, taking an alternate route across town that kept him hidden but within shouting distance.

He found himself a shaded alley across the square from the dressmaker's shop where he could keep watch, out of the way and out of sight. Hopefully they could keep this visit short, and once the dressmaker had Miss Abby's measurements, maybe they'd be able to steer clear of town altogether. Just as long as nobody took too much notice of him, they'd be fine.

He wished he could keep a closer eye on them himself, but it would be bad for them to be seen associated with him. He was glad they had accepted Miss Guthrie's offer of an escort, even if he felt a touch of jealousy at the other man.

"So what'd you do to piss off Flint?" came the unmistakable growl of Charles Vane from behind Billy, and he only barely managed not to jump.

" _Christ_ , Vane," he said turning to him. "Hello to you too."

Vane nodded a greeting but didn't change the topic: "I figure it must have been pretty bad. What was it?"

"What makes you think I pissed off Flint?" he asked, trying to keep his expression from betraying anything.

"The _Revenge_ sailed yesterday morning, and you're still here," Vane said. "Kind of hard to miss."

Billy resolutely kept himself from glancing in the direction of the dressmaker's shop. This was _exactly_ what they didn't want to have happen. "It's just— extended shore-leave. It's temporary."

"You're here with Flint's blessing, you mean."

He nodded rather than give a more concrete answer to _that_ question.

"And _why_ would he do that?" Vane asked, eyes narrowed.

Billy shrugged. "Because I asked him to. Look, I really don't want to talk about it. I just have a few things to see to here, and then there's a spot waiting for me on the _Revenge_. I'm not looking to be recruited."

"Personal things to see to, then?"

He managed to sort of nod and shrug at the same time. "Few weeks at the most, I think. And keep it quiet that I'm here, would you? Otherwise Rackham will be the next one to try to recruit me."

"Fucking Jack. Talked Dobson straight out from under my nose."

Billy gave a vaguely sympathetic hum.

Vane watched him a long moment, his expression calculating. "Here's an idea. I keep quiet, and when you need a break from your _personal things_..." He very deliberately shifted his gaze around Billy in the direction of the dressmaker's shop before sliding back to Billy's face, "You come have a drink with me, maybe give me some pointers for people I should be looking at recruiting."

And what could Billy say to that? "Sure. Will you be around the next few days?"

Vane shook his head. "The _Ranger_ is leaving in the morning. Should be back within the week."

He had to consciously keep himself from grinning at the short hunt time and likely reason behind it — the lack of sailors among the _Ranger_ 's crew. "You've really had to adjust your style, huh?"

"Laying in wait for a prize— well, better than the _Ranger_ getting a reputation for losing a prize because she's not able to fucking tack smoothly," he grumbled.

"Fair enough. I'll give the crew thing some thought."

Vane nodded. "See you, Bones," he said, and turned and left the way he came down the alley.

 

* * *

 

When they returned to the Guthrie tavern, shoes and extra small clothes obtained, measurements taken and fabrics selected for two dresses, they thanked Babatunde for his company. He gave a nod in greeting and returned to whatever his normal duties were. Eleanor pointed them to the stable yard. A mid-sized dog had been tied up there, coat a smooth russet brown, eyes watching everything with keen interest.

"Well, it— she, is not barking now," Miranda said with amusement. The dog focused on her, ears coming up. They were big and almost wing-shaped, set slightly toward the sides of its head, with only the very tips flopped over. Abigail giggled at the sight, and the dog focused on her, tilting its head.

"It's really cute," she said, stepping closer and cautiously offering her hand. She had expected some kind of huge, scary guard dog. Not this funny-eared creature which, after cautiously sniffing her hand, gave her a single, dignified little lick.

Miranda also approached to meet the dog, which investigated her hand and then her shoes, and gave its approval in much the same way.

"How about petting?" Abigail heard her murmur to the dog, and when some light petting was also met with enjoyment from the dog, "Oh, you're a sweet thing." Miranda looked at Abigail.

"This would seem like it'd work."

The dog rode placidly in the back of the wagon, obviously used to this, and barked at Billy when he walked toward their wagon on the outskirts of Nassau. She only stopped after Abigail jumped down to speak with him and introduce him to the dog. By the time they arrived at the homestead, they had thought of a name.

Dulcinea. Dulce for short.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact! Bahamian native dogs are called Potcake Dogs. They're interesting mixes, and when looking them up I came across this gorgeous pup, and this is obviously Dulce:  
> 


	13. XIII

They fell into a routine easily enough, the three of them. Maybe frightfully easy. Billy had expected to miss the ship, miss his brothers, miss the familiar routines of being aboard, but he found his days oddly fulfilling. He quickly found a rhythm on the homestead. Wake before dawn to light the fire, go feed the animals, draw up water from the well for the ladies' morning ablutions, put the bread dough — prepared the night before by Miss Abby — into the oven… take a break while the bread baked and the ladies emerged.

The three of them spent most mornings working in the garden, he doing the heavier tasks, they weeding and planting and harvesting what needed. After taking their lunch meal, the ladies took a long break for the hottest hours of the day, a 'siesta' as it was apparently called. The first day he'd tried to continue working, but Mrs. Barlow insisted upon him joining them, declaring it nonsense to be working hard in the hottest part of the day.

Instead they spent a few hours lounging on the porch or inside, often each reading, or discussing books, or just talking about whatever subject interested them that day, Dulce resting placidly at their feet. Within days Billy had completely given up on any attempt to keep himself removed from their socialising, to keep himself as their guard only. Miss Abby liked to ask his opinions on subjects they were discussing, and Mrs. Barlow gave him books to read. She even promised to ask the Captain to let Billy take his pick from any books taken from prizes, so he could read before the books eventually made their way to her.

He hadn't felt so intellectually challenged since before the Navy, and frequently found the siesta more tiring than the work in the gardens. It was satisfying to be able to join their conversation though, to formulate opinions they gave weight to, to feel included in their favourite pastimes. It reminded him of his parents' home, of spirited debates over the kitchen table.

 

Of course, sometimes the conversations were a lot less cheering.

"When we were arranging our travel plans last winter, my father wrote that there were eligible men to whom he'd like to introduce me," Miss Abby said, her tone one of forced optimism, in a conversation of what little they knew about Charles Town. Billy had nothing to contribute, but he was comfortably ensconced in the shade, glass of cool well water by his side, and was content to listen. Dulce was stretched out under Miss Abby's chair, enjoying the relative cool of the stone.

"Of course, that was before…" she trailed off, that fragile hope leaving her voice, and Mrs. Barlow laid a hand on her arm. "So whether any of them will still want to meet me…"  

 _They'd be idiots not to want to_ , Billy wanted to say, but kept silent, because this was not about him, and he wasn't sure that was the right thing to say. The last thing he wanted to do was upset her further.

"I can't promise you that they will, my dear," Mrs. Barlow said gently. "But I hope with all my heart that there will be gentlemen of quality there, who will only admire your fortitude for coming through what you've experienced, not hold against you what was neither your choice nor your fault."

"How could they not consider me ruined, after more than a month amidst pirates?" Miss Abby's voice crumbled. "It hardly matters that no one touched me."

 _Ruined_. Billy tried not to— he wasn't sure _what_ he wanted to do, except that everything about this was unbearable, and he wanted, _needed_ , to do something.

"Would it not—" his voice sounded strange to his own ears, and he cleared his throat, tried to breathe calmly, tried not to let his anger at what had been done to her bleed into his tone. "Would it not matter to them that nothing of what happened was your choice?"

She kept her eyes down, taking shaky breaths. "I think they'd consider the… the end result, to be the same."

Billy shoved to his feet, needing to do something, needing to _move_ , and strode into the garden with long paces, hashly sucking in air against what felt like a constriction in his chest. He'd become a pirate with his eyes open; stepped into a life of spiritual ruin and sin with the conscious choice of signing his name onto the articles of the _Walrus_. He'd known there was no way back into normal society. That had been his choice.

That somebody like Miss Abby, sweet and kind and _good_ , might be saddled with those same burdens, through no fault or action of her own, made him want to—

He came upon the wood blocks of a recently felled tree and the long axe on a hook on the shed wall close by. Yes, _that_ was what he needed, a good burn in his muscles, the satisfaction of hitting something with a great amount of force. That it would be an actual productive task he'd been planning to do, all the better.

 

* * *

 

Abigail gasped at the sudden scrape of the chair, at Billy's large shape moving quickly past her and off the porch steps, his footfalls hard on the packed ground, as Dulce jumped up to go with him. Was he—

"I believe he is angry on your behalf, my dear," Mrs. Barlow said soothingly, her thumb sweeping back and forth over Abigail's forearm. "Likely he does not know a way to express it to you."

"Oh," she whispered to her own feet.  

"And of course he's right," Mrs. Barlow said, leaning back and taking a sip of water. "The way society approaches this is utterly absurd. But society is not a monolith, not all who are _in_ society agree with all its attendant views and rules. I know there are those in London society who would scoff at such notions — Lady Chudleigh and Mistress Astell not the least of them."

"It does make it a little easier to face," Abigail said, her voice still small, "knowing that those whose opinions I value still stand in support of me." She glanced across the yard to where Billy had found a target for his frustration in the shape of the tree he'd felled a few days ago, and made herself sit up a little straighter. "Or would, if they heard of it."

"And it is those of similar opinion whose company you should seek in Charles Town. Anyone who would hold your grave misfortune against you is not worth of your time and attention, and certainly not worthy of your hand and partnership in marriage."

"I only hope my father will agree," she whispered, her breath hitching with a sob.

"Perhaps Charles Town will be more forward-thinking, and your father all the better for his long absence from London's small-minded drawing rooms."

They lapsed into silence for a while, each drawn into their own thoughts, while the rhythmic noise of wood being split resounded. Abigail was deep in thought, trying to picture the kind of man who might be interested in a match with her. Her father's position was such that she had little doubt there would be _somebody_ willing to take her on in exchange for the connection. If that would also be somebody she might be willing to marry, well that was another matter entirely, wasn't it?

She could only hope her father would hear her opinion. That he would not be so eager to have her married off that he'd force her into some affectionless union with somebody who would always hold her ruination over her head.

She distractedly wiped her face with her hand, and realised she had been looking at Billy for a while now. The play of his shoulder muscles, the way his forearms looked when he gripped the axe, the stretch of his back as he brought the axe overhead to swing it down with force… just then he bent over to right a piece of wood for another splitting.

Her thoughts went unwillingly back to the dream she'd had aboard the _Revenge_ , the day of the rope pulling competition. They provided her with a vivid picture of her own hand on his skin, caressing, exploring.

She abruptly cast down her eyes, folding her arms over her stomach in misery. Here she was saying that her misfortune ought not to be held against her, trying to believe that she was deserving of a moral man, a kind man. And yet her thoughts were full of sin and corruption.

_But each person is tempted when they are dragged away by their own evil desire and enticed. Then after desire has conceived, it gives birth to sin; and when sin is fully grown, it gives birth to death._

It should be easy for a well-bred young Lady to look away from the sight of a man chopping wood, lustful thoughts should be entirely strange to her, and yet— she was already looking at him again, having returned her eyes to him without even noticing.

_Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned_

_Forgive me, Father, for I cannot seem to—_

"He is a sight for sore eyes, is he not?" Miranda broke in on her distressed thoughts, her restless attempts at prayer. She sounded warm and indulgent.

Abigail whipped her gaze to the older woman's face, too startled by this to properly school her expression.

"Is it not… I mean…" she gestured vaguely, unable to summarise the deep unease that had taken hold of her as she looked at Billy, the feeling that it was wrong. The fear that her time amidst pirates had altered her irrevocably, leaving her soul tainted.  

"Sinful?" Miranda asked gently.

"Lust is a sin. I ought not to look at him in this manner," Abigail knew this for very certain.

"We admire beauty in so many places, why is it different to admire a man from afar than to admire a flower or a horse or a sunrise?"

"Wh-what?"

"It seems to me that there is nothing wrong with appreciating the finest works of the Creator," Miranda said, so calm and certain that Abigail desperately wanted to believe her. "As long as we remember that those... works... do not exist for our eyes, and treat them accordingly."

Abigail willed her to continue, to explain.

"Do you believe Billy minds that you look at him?"

"I... uh." Her reflex to say that of course it was bad that she looked came up against the memory of him stripping to the waist on deck. He had to have known she was there. And the times he'd seemed self-conscious he'd seemed to be a lot more concerned about what was proper for _her_.

"I believe that if he didn't think _we_ would be scandalised or made uncomfortable by it, he'd have taken off his shirt by now," Miranda said.

Abigail glanced back at Billy in his now sweat-soaked shirt, and had to admit she agreed.

"But would it matter if he did mind?"

Abigail nodded slowly. If she knew he minded being looked at by her, she would be uncomfortable looking, she thought.

"We are not things, and ought to demand we not be treated as such."

Abigail remembered suddenly, with startling clarity given the amount of grog she'd had at the time, Captain Flint telling her she was not a piece of furniture. After so long of having been treated like a prize by the _Nemo_ crew, it hadn't seemed as silly as it might otherwise.

"...and other people, including men, are also not things. As long as you don't treat them as if they are, I do not believe there is sin in enjoying the sight of them."

They were silent for a time, Abigail looking at Billy with less unease now, but also thinking.

"When you say 'people are not things,'" Abigail said finally, slowly. "Do you also include slaves?"

"Yes," Miranda said immediately. "Yes, I do. I may not wield the influence to do a damn thing about it, but the practice disgusts me."

"My father wrote little of such things, though I know it to be common in the Carolinas."

"Yes, and here in the Interior of New Providence, sadly."

"Apparently it's not a subject suitable for young ladies," Abigail said wryly. "Which always made me wonder — if it was such a natural order of things, why was it not suitable for my delicate constitution to hear about it? But in truth it was very far away, while I was in London. I never much thought about it until…"

She thought about what Captain Derrick had said, about being lucky to have a cabin of her own, because normally if she didn't behave herself he'd have put her in with the 'beasts'. About being treated like a thing, with only the sheer fortune that her birth made her more valuable to them than somebody taken from Africa.

She thought about the first faces she'd seen after hearing the _Revenge_ crew board the _Nemo_ , the men she'd later learned were called Joshua and Joji. About being helped aboard the _Revenge_ by Bosedeh, when she was still too scared to do anything but freeze. About the way he'd helped her depart the ship again.

"The men on Captain Flint's crew, they didn't suddenly become people when they were freed," she said softly. "They were people all along." Just as she herself hadn't stopped being a person when the _Nemo_ crew had treated her otherwise.

"Exactly. And I hope you remember that, when you are in Charles Town, when you are faced with the reality of it. And that in whatever way you can, you will treat people as people, and encourage others, those you might influence, to do the same."

They drifted into silence, the midday quiet punctuated only by the sounds of Billy's axe. She had been a prisoner of the _Nemo_ for just over a month; she tried to imagine a captivity that was never-ending, with no hope of ransom or rescue. And worse, knowing that the outside world thought your captivity was the right state of being. She shivered despite the heat. Her gaze found its way back to Billy, and she thought again about the day of the rope-pulling competition, the lash scars revealed by many of the men's unclothed state. Whether at the hands of slavers or the hands of the Navy, so many of Captain Flint's men seemed to have faced captivity and torture, Billy among them.

Turning to piracy didn't seem so strange when you considered what the Empire did to those it considered its own.

 

* * *

 

Miss Abby was screaming, and Dulce was barking high and sharp in alarm.

Billy went from sleep to utter adrenaline-edged wakefulness in matter of moments, scrambling to grab for his cutlass and ready his pistol. He was out the door of his room and down the hall toward the main part of the house in a bare few seconds, her voice still ringing in his ears.

The door to her room was open, candlelight spilling out, and the sounds of Miss Abby whimpering within.

He darted through the doorway, seeing the dog just inside the room, still barking. He took in the room as quickly as he could, assessing the threat — but there didn't seem to be one. Miss Abby was curled in a tight ball at the head of the bed, and beside her sat Mrs. Barlow, clearly having been wakened by her cries as well, but there didn't seem to be an intruder, anyone who might have—

"What happened?" Billy asked, lowering his weapons slightly. "Shhh, Dulce, shhh."

Mrs. Barlow looked up at him over her shoulder. "Nightmare, Mr. Manderly," she replied. "Nothing to shoot at this time." She turned back to Miss Abby, stroking her hair and making soothing noises. He picked up the name _Róisín_ from the soft sobbing.

Right. It finally clicked into place, and he could only blame the adrenaline for how long it took him to understand. "Right," he said, lowering both pistol and cutlass to his side, feeling daft. "Right, I'll go— put on some water for tea," he said, gesturing down the hall to the main room.

"And perhaps a shirt while you're at it," Mrs. Barlow said in that same gentle tone, and Billy turned and made for the kitchen, feeling his ears growing red.  

He sent the dog to her bed by the fire and urged the glowing embers back to life, filled the kettle and set it to boil, then returned to his room. The fading edge of the adrenaline left him feeling jittery and wrung out. He could quite happily live the rest of his life never hearing Miss Abby scream like that again, but he had a feeling the memory of it was unlikely to leave him. Of course he was glad they were safe, that there had been no immediate danger, but he almost wished there _had_ been, if for no reason than the satisfaction of murdering anyone who made her that afraid.

Billy returned his pistol and cutlass to their rightful places and located a clean shirt before returning to the kitchen, trying to ground himself in the unfamiliar feeling of the cool floor under his bare feet. When he rounded the corner to the main room, he found Miss Abby sitting in the chair nearest the fire, wrapped in the quilt from her bed. She looked up at him when he entered, her face tear-streaked but her eyes clear.

"Thank you for starting tea," she said, voice low and raspy from the crying, and Billy was reminded of her nightmare on one of last nights they were both aboard the _Revenge_ , the way she'd leaned against his shoulder and told him of Róisín.

He nodded in response to her thanks, then asked, "Where's Mrs. Barlow?"

"Gone to find her robe, I believe," Miss Abby said, pulling her blanket tighter around her.

"Are you alright?" Billy asked, lingering in the kitchen, setting out the delicate teacups mostly to keep himself from approaching her to offer comfort in ways he was painfully aware were utterly inappropriate. With the nightmare she'd had on the _Revenge_ , she had been worried about waking the Captain with her pacing, not with the distress of the nightmare itself — and if she had screamed like that aboard, Billy probably would have heard her clear from the other side of the ship. Whatever this had been, it was obviously worse than her nightmare that night. "I hope my— anger earlier today didn't upset you."

She blinked up at him, her eyes dark in the low light, then shook her head. "No, not at all. Miranda and I were speaking of… of my time on the _Nemo_. Brought it all back to the surface, I think."

He nodded again, every bit of what he wanted to say about the _Nemo_ seeming less than helpful in the moment. It was hard not to think of Róisín, of the woman Miss Abby had set out with, had expected to have by her side in her new life. She still seemed to occupy her thoughts a great deal.

"I wish I could have met your friend," he said softly, eyes on the chamomile tea he was making. "Róisín."

"I…" she took a long, shuddering breath. "Yes. I wish that too. She would have liked you, I think. Though perhaps it was a mercy that she died quickly."

Billy grimaced, because they both knew that the alternative, for somebody that wouldn't be worth a ransom, likely would have been far worse. _Good going, Bones, bringing that to mind_ , he berated himself. _Better off saying nothing, at this rate_.

"All the same. I'm sorry that you have to do without your friend."

Miss Abby nodded with a wan smile, and hearing Mrs. Barlow come out of her room, Billy concentrated on pouring the tea through a filter into three of the fine, mismatched porcelain teacups. Dulce had got up again, sitting next to Miss Abby's chair with her chin propped on Miss Abby's thigh, and Billy smiled when the dog made a happy little rumble at getting her ears scratched.

They drank tea in silence, each of the them still calming down.

"Perhaps some reading, to get ready to sleep again?" Mrs. Barlow suggested. "I have a book of marvellous tales, only recently translated from the Arabian. It is called _The Arabian Nights' Entertainment_ , and I believe it will have some stories of interest to you both."

That was how Billy came to be listening to the tale of Sinbad the Sailor until deep into the night, with Mrs. Barlow's voice gradually getting softer and slower as Miss Abby began to sag in her chair, Dulce curled up at her feet.

"Ah," Mrs. Barlow said finally, noticing that Miss Abby was now fully asleep. "I should probably have stopped while we could still get her to return to her bed…"

Billy tried not to get too drawn into looking at the way Miss Abby had pulled the blanket closely around her, small hands tucked under her chin. He knew his fascination wasn't exactly a secret from Mrs. Barlow, but he still tried not to be obvious.

"Come on then," Mrs. Barlow said, getting to her feet. "We might as well not wake her."

Billy blinked, hesitating, but she nodded again at Miss Abby.

Right. Well then.

He bent down and very carefully slipped his hands underneath the sleeping young woman, quilt and all, and slowly lifted her into his arms. He'd carried men before, even in this position a time or two, but it had been because they were wounded, speed of getting them below decks to the doctor far more important than their comfort. Miss Abby was lighter, the soft, warm weight of her settling easily into his arms, her head rolling against his shoulder with a soft sigh. He felt his heart squeeze with protectiveness.  

He was _so fucked_.

 

* * *

 

Abigail slept late the next morning, waking gradually to the safety and comfort of her bed, still wrapped in her quilt. She didn't remember coming back to bed last night, must have dozed off while Miranda was reading, and then been too sleepy to remember the walk back to her room. After that she'd slept soundly, no nightmares to speak of, she was thankful to note. Billy and Miranda had both been so kind to her, and their efforts seemed to have paid off.

She moved through her morning routine slowly, and when she finally emerged from her room, she found Miranda lingering over a late breakfast, teacup in hand. Miranda turned to smile up at her as she approached the table.

"Good morning, Abby," she said. "I hope you slept well, after you returned to bed?"

"I did, thank you," Abigail replied, pouring herself a cup of tea and cutting a slice from the loaf of bread, which was still warm. "I quite enjoyed the story last night, thank you for reading to us," she added.

"Perhaps we should make that part of our routine, reading aloud together before bedtime. _The Arabian Nights' Entertainment_ should provide us with material for quite awhile," she said with a smile. "If you're feeling up to it, thought today we might go into town for the final fitting for your dresses, and to check for news from your father."

 

As they drove down to Nassau Billy once again jumped down from the cart, making his own way into town. Abigail knew he'd do his best to stay nearby, but it felt strange to watch him walk away, knowing she likely wouldn't see him all day. They left Marcus and their wagon in the tavern's stable as before, and made their way on foot to the dressmaker's shop a few streets away.

When they approached the shop, Abigail noticed a pirate lounging outside, leaned up against the wall near the door, a long coat and a hat with the brim pulled low obscuring most details of their person. At first she assumed them to be a man; short and slight of build, perhaps, but the pirates Abigail had seen in town seemed to come in every shape and size, and the crew of the _Revenge_ had been similar. She tried to keep her gaze on the shop ahead, tried not to call any more attention to herself than necessary.

But as they crossed the square, she realised the lounging pirate was most likely a woman, given the fall of her coat and the smooth chin revealed when she tilted her head to watch them pass, her hat still obscuring most of her face. As soon as Abigail and Miranda reached the door of the shop, Abigail saw the pirate woman push off the wall of the building. She followed them inside, just a moment behind them, and Abigail had to clench her teeth around the sudden surge of terror that flooded her. Had she been discovered? Was one of the crews lying in wait for them, banking on their eventual return to town? They had decided to forego an escort for this visit, and the realisation of how exposed they were, how far away Billy must be, coiled cold and dreadful in her belly.

Abigail moved closer to Miranda, touched her arm and silently directed her gaze towards the pirate who had entered the shop behind them. Together they watched as she crossed the open area at the front of the shop to whisper in the ear of a finely dressed woman looking at ribbons at the far end of the counter. The two turned to look at Abigail and Miranda in unison, and beside Abigail, Miranda relaxed noticeably.

"Mistress Max, how lovely it is to see you again," Miranda said cordially, stepping more fully into the shop. Abigail moved with her, her mind taking a moment to catch up, for the fear to fall away enough to allow her to follow what was happening.

"Mrs. Barlow," the second woman said, smiling and taking a few steps towards them. "You are looking well." Her voice was musical with a French accent, and for a moment Abigail could almost believe them to be back in London, meeting acquaintances in Lady Chudleigh's drawing room. "You remember my companion, Anne Bonny, of course," she went on, gesturing to the pirate woman, who nodded to them once.

"A pleasure as always, Miss Bonny," Miranda replied, smiling as well. "This is my niece, Miss Abby Barlow, who you may remember I mentioned would be coming from Barbados to stay for a while."

"But of course," Mistress Max said. "Welcome to Nassau, Miss Barlow."

Abigail's upbringing kicked in then, and she curtseyed to the two women. "Mistress Max, Miss Bonny, so pleased to make your acquaintance."

She remembered, now that the terror had receded a little, that both these women had been instrumental in her rescue from the _Nemo_ , and realised Miranda must have met with them during the planning of it. Miss Bonny had been the one to help Billy purchase pirate clothes for her. He had told them, before their first trip to town, that she should seek out Mistress Max and Miss Bonny if anything disastrous were to happen. The sudden shift from fearing she'd been found out to recognising that they were in the company of allies made her head spin.

"I hope your trip to our shores was a pleasant one?" Mistress Max asked, and when Abigail met her gaze, she could see the genuine concern in her eyes. Her expression was still one of polite interest, and Abigail realised none of them could speak more openly of what they all knew. It was a game, almost, speaking in mannered pleasantries to express that which was too dangerous to say where it might be overheard. London's drawing rooms were full of such games as well, though usually without the threat to life and limb hanging in the balance.

"The last leg of my journey here was the most agreeable time I've spent at sea," she answered honestly, though she kept her tone mild. They could be discussing the weather, rather than her rescue from captivity.

Miss Bonny snorted softly and turned away, perhaps in amusement, Abigail thought, just as Mrs. Tilley came bustling out from the back room.

"Ah, Miss Barlow!" she said when she spotted them, "I was just wondering if you'd be by soon, I have your dresses ready for their fittings. And Mistress Max, I have those fabrics laid out for your inspection, if you would like to follow me."

Miss Bonny and Mistress Max exchanged a silent look, then Miss Bonny nodded to them again before exiting the shop. Mistress Max fell into step beside Abigail as they followed Mrs. Tilley into her workroom.

"I trust you are settling in well, at Mrs. Barlow's home?" she asked, continuing their game of drawing room talk covering over deeper concerns.

"Quite well, thank you," Abigail replied. "I find that life here agrees with me."

Mistress Max gave her a considering look, as Mrs. Tilley went to fetch Abigail's dresses. "If you find yourselves in need of assistance around the homestead — I have a new serving girl at the Inn, recently arrived from Port Royal. I believe she would be more suited to the quieter atmosphere of a home in the Interior, and she has worked as a lady's maid in the past. I thought perhaps she might be a welcome help to you? Or perhaps you know of one of your neighbours who is looking for a lady's maid for hire?" she asked, a slight emphasis on the last word.

For a moment all Abigail could think of was Róisín, of all their many mornings together, their easy chatter as Róisín helped Abigail prepare for the day. She could feel Miranda's eyes on her, and she swallowed past the grief and met Mistress Max's gaze again. "We are getting along well enough, the two of us," she replied, almost surprised at how steady she had been able to will her voice into being. "But I will certainly keep an ear out for anyone looking to hire help," she added, thinking of the impending church visit these new dresses would allow.

Mistress Max smiled and nodded. "I very much appreciate it. And now, we should not keep Mrs. Tilley from her work. Please know that if you need anything at all, you can send word to me at the Inn. It was so lovely seeing you both, Miss Barlow, Mrs. Barlow."

She curtseyed to them, regal in her finery in a way that made Abigail feel underdressed for the first time in weeks. Abigail and Miranda curtseyed in response and murmured their farewells, then turned and followed Mrs. Tilley into the fitting room, leaving Mistress Max to linger over bolts of finely-woven, colourful silks.

 

The fitting with Mrs. Tilley resulted in only a few alterations, and she promised to have the dresses ready to pick up within the hour, so they made their way to Eleanor Guthrie's tavern for a late lunch. Eleanor directed them to a small room off the main portion of the tavern, with a table big enough for six and a door that separated them from the main dining room. Having had a light breakfast, by unspoken agreement they ordered a large, almost lavish meal. While they waited for it to arrive, they talked easily about Abigail's progress in Spanish under Miranda's tutelage.

Their lunch arrived in swift order, the tavern fairly quiet in the early afternoon.

"It looks lovely, would you please convey our appreciation to the kitchen?" Miranda said to the serving girl. Abigail smiled at her as she took her leave, and then her eyes were drawn back to the food. It had been a long time since she'd seen such a spread, and even then it hadn't been for just two people.

"Well, my dear, let's tuck in. With the morning we've had, we certainly deserve it," Miranda smiled, pulling a basket of bread rolls toward her. Abigail followed her example and buttered the roll, a little uncertain in this new situation. She'd been thoroughly schooled in table etiquette in London, and Miranda _was_ the kind of Lady whom she'd normally expect to adhere to such manners, but in the privacy of the Barlow homestead everything felt more relaxed. And this tavern was nothing like the formal dining places in London.

Miranda poured them both a cup of the watered-down wine, and Abigail sliced a few thin slices of the beautifully cooked ham. There was honey dressing, and Miranda was just remarking that she could ask one of their neighbours to place a few beehives on her land, when the door to their private back room abruptly opened.

A tall man looked at them, casually taking in the spread of food on the table and then the two ladies. He had long hair, a sash with a pistol tucked into it, and a sharp, hawkish sort of profile. Somehow, Abigail thought distantly, he looked more like a pirate than the pirates she'd met so far.

Was he here because he knew who she was? To kidnap her, so he could claim ransom?

He sniffed audibly, clearly catching the scent of their food.

The way he was blocking the doorway, the solid shape of him outlined by the light behind him, put Abigail on edge, uncomfortably reminded of the way the _Nemo_ 's men had stood in the doorway of her cell sometimes, blocking her in. She had learned, later, that it was usually deliberate; that at least the men of the _Revenge_ had been perfectly capable of noticing when they loomed over her, and of avoiding it. Even Billy, with his huge frame, had managed to avoid making her feel uncomfortably crowded.

Was she about to face another eternity of being manhandled and intimidated and treated like a valuable but inconveniently human-shaped prize? To her surprise she felt a flare of irritation that almost matched the cold dread in her stomach.

She glanced at Miranda from the corner of her eye, and took strength from the way the older woman calmly put down her cutlery with two precise clicks.

"Can we help you, sir?"

He just grunted, watching them with keen eyes, seeming to be waiting for something.

"Sir, your standing around makes the place look untidy," she said mildly. "Please either join us, or leave us to our meal."

The man huffed a breath, either surprised or amused, and stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. That was precisely what Abigail had hoped wouldn't happen, what no polite person would have done. She supposed it was exactly fit for the pirate this man looked to be though.

"Don't mind if I do," he said, voice a low rasp. Standing before them, he made a wry little bow. "Captain Charles Vane, of the _Ranger_."

 _Captain is Charles Vane. He's a…_ Billy had hesitated, and Abigail now wondered which descriptions he'd considered but abandoned. _He wouldn't harm you, I don't think_ , he'd settled on, followed by a warning to stay well away from his crew.

_He wouldn't harm you, I don't think._

Well, she supposed they were about to find out if Billy's measure of the man would ring true.

"Miranda Barlow," Miranda said, "And my niece, Abby. Please _do_ sit down, Captain Vane. Would you care for some wine?"

Before he could answer, she poured him a cup with precise, neat movements, and Abigail realised Miranda had, in the face of such a shocking interloper, switched to Polite Society manners. She followed suit.

"Some ham, perhaps?" she suggested, as Miranda offered the man the cup she'd poured out for him. "It is quite exquisite." She was pleased to find that her voice sounded blandly polite, a tone long-cultivated during endless visitations and dull dinner parties, and that it did not betray any tremble of fear at all.

"Uh, yes," he said, sitting down, correcting his apparently instinctive sprawl into a straight-backed posture. "Please."

She cut him a neat slice of ham, which he accepted with a nod, and offered him the basket of bread rolls.

"Oh, and you simply _must_ try the honey glaze," Miranda smiled, hitting a tone Abigail recognised from watching Lady Chudleigh handle a particularly rude dinner guest.

"It really is very good," she agreed, passing him the dish.

"Thank you," he said in a low tone. Perhaps not quite taken aback, but his deliberate, intimidating swagger had dimmed down considerably.

"And how has your recent sailing gone for you, Captain Vane?" Abigail asked while he was still chewing his first bite of ham. "We noticed the _Ranger_ 's return to the bay."

He noticeably refrained from his first instinct of simply speaking with his mouth full, and took his time to chew and swallow before he answered.

"Been going well— took a fat prize just the other day. Come to live it up a couple days," he drawled.

Abigail thought he might be expecting, even hoping, for them to be shocked by hearing piracy referenced so openly, so casually. If that was the intent, it failed to provoke the response he might have been looking for.

"You certainly seem to be succeeding in that," Miranda said mildly, glancing at the food they'd put in front of him and giving him a devastatingly friendly smile.

Captain Vane tilted his head and gave Miranda a long, keen look, corners of his mouth ticking up, and Abigail realised that he was perfectly aware of having been Handled, but was more amused than annoyed by it. She dabbed her lips with her napkin to hide her own smile.

"Being invited to eat which two such lovely ladies is certainly vastly improving my day," he said, sounding wryly amused. "Got curious about you two," he said, taking a swig of wine, "thought I'd come say hello."

"Mm," Abigail hummed agreeably, encouraging him to keep going. Had he gotten curious from seeing them in the street or… the alternative was less good. If he knew who she was…

"I can see what Flint sees in you," he nodded to Miranda. "Been wondering who'd put up with his dour ass, but you don't seem like you'd put up with much of that."

"Indeed?" Miranda said blandly, as if she hadn't just put Captain Vane in line with some aggressively polite manners. Abigail wondered if she had been aware that the other pirate captains knew about her and her connection to Captain Flint, or if it perhaps it was just this one. She supposed that if this situation of Flint and Miranda had been going on for nigh on ten years, it was scarcely likely that somebody _hadn't_ gotten curious about who Flint would ride off to see in the Interior whenever he was in port.

Captain Vane turned to Abigail, and she refused to let him see the way his direct, searching look was making her spine stiffen. She looked back at him, thinking of how afraid she'd been of Captain Flint at first. Wondering if this man also had a Sailing Master who shouted at him about ship safety, or a cook who made sarcastic comments. He almost certainly also faced the issue of having to keep his crew satisfied, or risk being voted out of his captaincy.

She raised one delicate eyebrow at him, silently willing him to come to his conclusion about her, whatever it was, faster.

"And _you_ ," he grinned at Abigail, and to her surprise, she found herself smiling back. "I can see why Billy Bones is still on dry land."

She felt herself blush bright red, and wished she had any way to stop it. Whatever she had expected from Captain Vane, it certainly wasn't that.

"Are you a friend of Mr. Manderly's, then?" Miranda said, drawing Vane's attention away

"Oh yeah, me an' Billy go way back," he said with a languid handwave. "Was wondering what kind of 'personal business' could possibly keep him shoreside, especially something Flint'd give his blessing for, but this," he glanced at Abigail, who was still willing her cheeks to cool down, "explains a lot."

 _He doesn't know_ , Abigail realised, hoping the way she briefly covered her face looked like self-consciousness, not the intense wave of relief that momentarily made her feel lightheaded. He had come to some sort of logical conclusion, given the facts as he knew them, which apparently didn't include who she really was. Though the conclusion he'd come to seemed to be that Billy was, what— in love with her? _Courting_ her?

Oh Lord.

"Perhaps you could be so kind as to allow the situation to develop as it will," Miranda said mildly, "without foregone conclusions or undue pressure."

"Oh, I wouldn't want to endanger Billy's suit," he said generously, with a glint in his eyes that made Abigail suspect Billy would certainly not be hearing the end of this imagined situation anytime soon.

They continued their meal in a surprisingly amiable manner, especially once Captain Vane had been encouraged to tell them stories about sailing. Abigail knew perfectly well that Miranda had sent the conversation in that direction to both flatter the man and to avoid having to discuss any subject they needed to keep secret, but she couldn't help be fascinated by the stories too.

Whatever else he was, Vane was both a keen seafarer and a good storyteller, describing encounters with whales and dolphins to them in as much detail as they requested. By the time he was telling them about an enormous pod of dolphins he'd encountered once — "As far as the eye could see, in all directions" — even Miranda was engaged, having dropped her chilly politeness.

 

Abigail was beginning to feel sated when the door opened again, and Miss Guthrie appeared. She immediately focused on Captain Vane's presence in a way that suggested she'd been looking for him, and the displeased slant of her eyebrows made clear she was not happy to have found him here.

"Captain Vane, a word please," she said.

"Certainly!" he said, all solicitousness, wiping his mouth with a napkin and getting to his feet. "Ladies, my thanks for the meal."

Miranda gave him a nod and a small smile, and Abigail smiled at him too.

He continued, in that low rasp that really did not seem fitting for mannerly words such as these, "Should you find yourself in need, I am at your disposal."

He made a little bow that Abigail wasn't sure was mocking or merely not a familiar gesture to him, and then turned to Miss Guthrie, following her out and lightly closing the door behind him.

"Well," Miranda said after a long moment. "I suppose there could have been worse outcomes than that."

 

"I apologise for— he never should have been in here," Miss Guthrie said when she returned a while later, "let alone invited himself to your meal. I hope he didn't unsettle you too much?"

"He was… surprisingly appropriate, after the initial bluster," Miranda said with something of amusement. "Are you quite well, Abby?"

"I have dined with worse guests in London," Abigail allowed. "And we did invite him to share our meal."

At Miss Guthrie shocked expression, Miranda explained, "Since he looked like he intended to do so anyway, it seemed preferable to keep control and invite him on our terms. We are quite fine."

Miss Guthrie looked between them for a moment, then shook her head, smiling. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised you handled him so well."

 

* * *

 

If Billy had known that staying behind to protect Miss Abby would involve _this_ much skulking around town, he would have volunteered John Silver for it instead.

He really wouldn't have, he didn't trust Silver as far as Miss Abby could throw him, but it helped his mood to imagine Silver trying to do this job. His afternoon had consisted of a whole lot of nothing, staying out of the way in back alleys and keeping his head down. When he'd seen Anne Bonny follow Mrs. Barlow and Miss Abby into the dressmaker's shop, he'd dropped back to a more hidden spot, confident that Bonny could handle anything long enough for him to reach them. He followed at a distance as they went to the tavern for lunch, then followed back to the dress shop, only his anxiety over being recognised keeping him from being bored out of his skull.

He would have brought a book, if he didn't think it would just make him stand out _more_.

He met up with the ladies on the inland outskirts of the town, jogging to catch up with the cart and jumping onto the back. Once they were out of view of whoever might have been watching, Mrs. Barlow half turned her head to address him.

"Captain Vane is an interesting man."

"You— shit, you _met_ him? Excuse me," he added hastily, trying to figure out where they might have encountered Vane without him catching wind of it.

"He… shall we say, invited himself to our lunch."

_That asshole. I should have—_

They must have both noticed his alarm, because Miss Abby said, "We are well, Billy. He said he was curious about us. We spoke for a while. He does not seem to know who I am. Though the conclusion he did come to…" she trailed off, and he waited with some trepidation. Vane was smart and tenacious. If he was curious about Mrs. Barlow and Miss Abby, he likely wouldn't stop digging until he'd found whatever there was to find, and that would not be good at all.

"He seemed to conclude that you are ashore, with your Captain's blessing, to court Miss Abby," Mrs. Barlow said, a hint of amusement in her tone.

After half a moment of shock, Billy turned that over in his head, trying to see the tactical implications. If Vane explained Billy's presence with this reason, he likely thought he'd found what there was to find, and might well let it go. That could only be positive.

Miss Abby was looking at him anxiously.

"I didn't know what to say," she said, a little sheepish. "It seemed safest to let him go on with an assumption that appears to explain the situation."

"Oh, you did well," he assured her. "I think it will work in our favour, even. I'll be sure to act embarrassed about it next time I meet him."

"Is it very awkward for you?"  

"If I act awkward enough about it," Billy said practically, "he'll think he has something to hold over me, and focus on that, and not on you."

"Oh."

She turned forward again to face the road, and Billy thought to himself _I'm not embarrassed Vane thinks I have feelings for you, Miss_ , but that couldn't be said out loud. He quite liked Vane's version of all this. If Miss Abby really were Mrs. Barlow's niece, if she didn't have to return to her father the Lord Governor of the Carolinas… well, he might prefer that version, was all.


	14. XIV

Dulce had been dozing in the sunshine near where Billy was up on a ladder, working on the shed roof. She came alert at some noise Billy didn't hear, sitting up and staring toward the lane with her large ears perked forward. As he watched, she huffed under her breath once, then pushed to her feet and barked more clearly, eyes fixed on the gate. Billy climbed down the ladder, coming around the shed carefully.

"Dulce," he said, low and insistent to draw the dog's attention to him. "What is it, girl?"

She looked back at him over her shoulder, then turned to bark at the gate again. He rounded the last corner ready for anything, only to find—

"Christ. If I tell De Groot about this he'll _cry_."

"Captain," Billy said, shaking off his momentary shock, "when did you get in?" He gave Dulce a sign to stand down, then pet her a little behind her ears, which were still cocked forward with interest, even as she obediently sat beside him.

"Early this morning," Flint said, dismounting his horse to open the gate. Billy closed it behind him as the Captain said, "I would have been here sooner, but your temporary replacement decided to take up half my morning." His voice sour, he added: "The men voted in Silver as Quartermaster while you're away."

"They didn't," Billy said on a groan. Silver was great at working a crowd, but not so much at working a ship. For a permanent arrangement the Captain would probably have settled on another to take the morning and dog watches, but if Billy had to guess, it was likely that Silver was taking the watch with extensive sailing-related backup from De Groot.

"We're all very clear that this is _temporary_ ," the Captain said, in a way that made Billy feel suddenly very self-conscious about how entrenched he'd become here in the last week and a half, how comfortable.

"And who's this?" Flint asked, pushing on unaware of Billy's discomfort, in the tone people usually used when meeting a dog.

"This is Dulcinea, Dulce for short," Billy said, giving her a friendly scratch as Flint held out his hand for her to smell. He seemed to crack a smile at the name, and it was almost strange to think that the Captain shared the same love of literature as Mrs. Barlow and Miss Abby. To think that, in the absence of Billy and Miss Abby, it must be Flint who shared wide ranging discussions with Mrs. Barlow in the heat of the day, who read with her by the fire in the evening. It was a side of James Flint he'd never expected to see.

"Dulce, this is Captain Flint," he went on, as the dog sniffed at Flint's hand. "You'll be seeing a lot of him, so go ahead and get used to him now." Satisfied with what she found, she gave his hand one small lick, as was her way, then sat back on her haunches, slowly wagging her tail in the dust.

"Not a bad idea, having a dog here," Flint said as they led the horse toward the stables. "That nosy pastor is always trying to catch Miranda unawares."

He stabled the borrowed horse in the free stall, and to Billy's amusement, greeted Mrs. Barlow's horse with, "Hello Marcus, lad," and a friendly forehead stroke. Flint hefted the sack he'd had tied behind his saddle and together they made their way toward the house.

"The guard dog, repairing the shed — you've made yourself useful here," the Captain said as they walked.

Billy shrugged, not quite sure what to make of the praise. "I help where I can, didn't want to be idle. But if you do say anything to De Groot, maybe mention the carpentry but leave out the straw hat bit, yeah?" he said with a grin.

Flint smiled crookedly in response as he led the way through the front door of the house.

Mrs. Barlow and Miss Abby were in the kitchen putting together a light lunch, their conversation trailing off as Billy and Flint entered. They both paused, partially turned towards the door, looking surprised at the Captain's sudden presence.

"If you were wondering what Dulce was barking about earlier," Billy said, smiling as he hung his hat on a peg near the door.

"Well," Mrs. Barlow said after another beat of silence, giving the Captain an intense look that Billy couldn't quite decipher. Flint, for his part, was staring at her with an expression of admiration and yearning that Billy hadn't thought to see on him, but was all too readable. And all the more so for echoing so closely this odd thing rattling around his own chest these last weeks. Billy looked over to find Miss Abby watching him, and he held her gaze for a long moment before Mrs. Barlow spoke again.

"How did it go?" she asked briskly, wiping her hands on a dishcloth and crossing the main room towards them. Billy took the opportunity to move toward the kitchen and Miss Abby, feeling almost pushed out of the space by the enormity of whatever was brewing between Mrs. Barlow and the Captain.

"It went well," Flint said, clearly trying to school himself into a stance more casual than he truly felt at the moment. "Took two small prizes, nothing too strenuous with Mr. Silver as interim Quartermaster — tobacco and whale oil, mostly, all on its way to Miss Guthrie as we speak. The crew coped well enough," he went on, directing more of this statement toward the kitchen, as though remembering that they weren't alone, "but it will be a relief to have you back on board, Billy."

"Thank you, sir," Billy said, nodding once.

Mrs. Barlow had come to a stop an arm's length from the Captain, and regarded him with one eyebrow raised. "Mr. Silver?" she asked, her tone mild.

"Their choice, not mine, believe me," he replied, that crooked grin making a reappearance.

"Any injuries?" she asked next, in a tone that made Billy think that if she didn't ask, Flint was apt to leave a trail of blood across her tidy floor.

"A few among the men, nothing serious," he answered easily, obviously prepared for the question.

Mrs. Barlow watched him for a long moment, then said, "Well then, let's get you settled, shall we?" She turned her gaze towards Billy and Miss Abby. "Lunch outside today, I think. Billy, if you'd be so kind as to bring an extra chair from around back."

"Yes, ma'am," he replied, looking up from helping Miss Abby finish chopping fruit for lunch.

He and Miss Abby were silent as they listened to Mrs. Barlow leading Captain Flint down the hall, and then the sound of the door to her room closing. Mrs. Barlow clearly wanted a moment for a private hello — or as private as this small house with its thin walls would allow, at any rate. Though that would be more of an issue for tonight than these few moments before lunch, he realised with a grimace.

Billy very deliberately did not look at Miss Abby as they started to transfer the fruit to the tray to take outdoors. After ten days in close quarters with Miss Abby and Mrs. Barlow, Billy wouldn't have thought the Captain's presence would make things _more_ awkward, and yet here they were. Maybe he should go down to the beach tonight, see his brothers, attend to a few errands in town while he could be seen there without danger…

"They voted for Mr. Silver as Quartermaster in your absence?" Miss Abby asked, soft voice breaking the silence. He wasn't sure if she was unaware of what was going on between Flint and Mrs. Barlow, or just better at hiding it.

"I… don't know what they were thinking," he replied, shaking his head.

"Is he even— Pardon me, is he a sailor? I only mean, he did not seem to participate in the sailing-related tasks on board, even when the rest of the crew did."

"He's really not," Billy chuckled, helping her gather the lunch things and carry them out to the small table on the front porch. Dulce lay dozing in the shade nearby.

"Must he be leading your watches while you're away, too?"

He shrugged. "I assume so."

When he turned to go around to the back of the house for the extra chair, Miss Abby trailed after him, so he shortened his stride length to allow her to fall in beside him.

"That seems terribly difficult," she said, her gaze downcast. "To be handed so much responsibility with so little experience."

"He could have refused the nomination, but the money must have sounded tempting," Billy snorted. "It'll be good for him, honestly. Silver could stand to learn a little responsibility, and nothing teaches it quite so well as having it dropped in your lap." Like, say, stepping into the role of your recently-dead mentor.

"Still," she said, "I would not wish to be in his shoes."

"You'd do a better job of it," Billy said before he could stop himself, hefting the chair and starting for the front of the house.

"Truly?" she asked, placing herself at his side again.

"Well, for one thing, I think you actually had more sailing experience than he did when we left the _Revenge_ ten days ago," he said, looking over to catch her smile at that. "And certainly more interest in gaining it. Besides that, you listen to directions better than Silver does, you take corrections better and learn from them faster, and I'm not sure I've seen him _once_ devote the attention to a task that you do." He set the chair down beside the others on the front porch, then glanced to the side to find Miss Abby blushing a pretty pink.

"Thank you for saying so," she said, darting her gaze to his and away again.

"Wouldn't have said it if it wasn't true," he said, trying to shrug it off. "Honestly I'm just surprised they haven't chucked him over the side, yet."

It startled a laugh out of her, quicker than she could bring her hand up to cover her mouth. "Oh, that's terrible, I wouldn't wish that on Mr. Silver," she said, still laughing behind her hand.

"The Captain would fish him out again. Probably."

That elicited another round of giggles, interrupted only when the front door opened and Mrs. Barlow and Captain Flint came out to join them on the porch. Flint had divested himself of his coat and weapons. It hadn't been long enough for more than a kiss, Billy figured, but it must have been a pretty thorough one. Mrs. Barlow looked bright-eyed and perhaps a little flushed.

"Ah, here we all are," she said, smiling at them. "Shall we eat?"

 

They ate in silence for several long minutes, the Captain and Mrs. Barlow exchanging lingering looks from time to time.

"Well," Flint finally said, leaning back, "I had thought to give us our lunch to relax, but as this seems to be hanging over all of us now — there was a letter waiting for me at Miss Guthrie's when I came into town this morning," he said, turning to Miss Abby.

She wiped her mouth with her napkin, looking as surprised as Billy felt. "From my father?"

The Captain nodded, producing a folded and sealed bundle of papers, addressed to him care of Miss Guthrie. "I haven't opened it yet," he said, handing it to Miss Abby across the table.

She blinked down at it a moment, holding it with both hands. Billy wondered what she was feeling, though he hardly had a handle on what _he_ was feeling in that moment, himself. No matter what was in that letter, it almost certainly spelled the end of this strange little life here, whatever this was. Miss Abby drew in a deep breath and then carefully broke the wax seal and unfolded the letter. Billy watched as her gaze skittered across the page, her expression falling.

"I believe it is meant for you, sir," she said in a small voice, looking up at Flint and handing the letter back to him.

The Captain accepted it from her, a scowl forming as he read.

"What is it?" Mrs. Barlow asked, looking between them.

Miss Abby's gaze darted around to each of them before she replied, "My father thought my letter to him to be coerced. He does not even address the possibility of meeting with Captain Flint."

"That along with some choice language about returning you to him with utmost haste," Flint added sourly, reading through to the end of the letter before handing it to Mrs. Barlow.

"What now?" Billy asked, wishing there was something he could do to comfort Miss Abby, who looked miserable.

Flint sighed, folding his arms across his chest and looking to Mrs. Barlow for a moment. She finished reading the letter and then raised her eyes to his, gaze focused in a way that made Billy sure she was already thinking through all the possible options in her own mind.

"We could go to Charles Town," Flint said, addressing it to the table as a whole. "Take Miss Abby ashore when we get there, hope Peter will be willing to meet with us once he sees that you're safe."

Miss Abby held Captain Flint's gaze, considering. "My father has a reputation for hanging pirates, does he not?"

Flint nodded once, and Miss Abby shook her head.

"It seems to me unwise to bet against that reputation, especially if he thinks I have been coerced into writing the letter he received. If I could only convince him that I am well, that I stand in support of this plan…" She trailed off, biting her lip in the way she did when she was deep in thought. "Perhaps if I wrote him a second letter, I could convince my father to meet with you, and give you safe passage in and out of his harbour?"

"That could mean being here for another few _weeks_ , at least," Flint said. "You must be anxious to finally arrive in Charles Town?"

"I am quite…" she trailed off, uncertain, and then began again, looking at each of them. "You have been so kind to me, in my distress. If you were in danger of hanging just for returning me, I could not live with that."

It was silent for long moments as they contemplated the situation.

"And… and I am comfortable enough here that a few more weeks are not such a terrible prospect," Miss Abby said with a small smile. Mrs. Barlow also smiled, clearly pleased to hear it.

The Captain shifted his gaze to Billy, expression questioning, evidently seeking Billy's opinion.

He glanced to Miss Abby then back to Flint. "I think it's our best shot," he said honestly. "Miss Abby's right, I don't much fancy the idea of sailing into Charles Town harbour without at least some assurances from her father that we'll leave there alive. A second letter seems like the best course of action to me."

"And you'll stay?" Flint asked, not quite challenging.

"I thought I might go down to the beach tonight, see the crew, visit a few shops in town while it's safe for me to be seen. But I'll be back in the morning. I'll stay." He could feel Miss Abby's gaze on him, but very carefully avoided looking at her.

Flint nodded. "Not a bad idea. De Groot has command of the ship at the moment, which leaves Silver on the beach with the crew. I'm only _mostly_ sure the men won't roast him for supper. Maybe you could remind him that he stood for that Quartermaster's election of his own free will. Campaigned for it, even. I distinctly recall a speech."

It took Billy a moment to realise that Miss Abby was laughing silently into her napkin.

 

* * *

 

"That reminds me, my sweet," Flint said, casually touching Miranda's arm, "I brought a bottle of Madeira wine from the prize — I seem to remember Miss Ash—Miss Abby's birthday is coming up next week."

Abigail blinked in surprise, at the gesture but even more so at the reminder of the passage of time. She'd set out at the end of April, and with being at sea and the change in climate, it didn't feel like her birthday could be anywhere on the horizon, but counting up the time, she realised it must be.

"I suppose it is," she said softly. "Thank you."

He acknowledged her with a friendly nod, then turned back to Miranda. "I also brought several books, works I think are not yet in your library."

"Ohh," Miranda thrilled. "How excellent. We have been very much enjoying _The Arabian Nights' Entertainment_ that you brought me last month."

"I'm sorry I missed the beginning of it," Flint said.

"It is primarily a collection of individual tales, dearest," Miranda said. "We begin a new one each night, I dare say you'll be able to jump right in and enjoy it with the rest of us. And on that note," she added, smiling around at them, "I suggest we take the afternoon off, no chores other than that which must be done."

"I should finish the support struts on the shed," Billy said, though he looked like he was in no hurry to leave the comfortable shade of the porch. "If the wind picks up overnight I don't trust it not to fall over in the state it's in now."

"I'll help you with it," Flint offered with a grimace. "I've been meaning to see to that for months."

"Billy is such a help to me here, I might want to hang on to him, even after Abby is safely home with her father," Miranda said with a teasing tone. "I believe I could entice him into staying on land with a promise of free access to my books."

"Don't you dare, evil wench," Flint growled at her, and Abigail almost gasped at the tone, at the words. But she was no longer as intimidated by the Captain as she had been, and noticed the way his eyes crinkled at the corners. And the way Miranda's smile was growing.

The Captain looked at Billy. "Think of De Groot's heart."

Billy nodded very seriously. "It can't be denied that it's a draw, sir. Giving up my straw hat _and_ the books would be a great sacrifice."

"Don't forget the dog," Miranda added helpfully. Billy looked down at where Dulce had her chin propped up on his boot. She noticed his attention, and her ears perked up.

"Not. Helping," Flint said sternly, and she gave him a beatific smile, touching her fingertips briefly to his wrist.

"I do have a proposal of something that might convince me to come back aboard," Billy said, breaking whatever momentary spell had caught hold of Captain Flint. "If you would allow me first pick of the books we find on prizes, that would satisfy me. Once I've read them, they could make their way here."

"Hmm. Can't escape the impression that I'm being ganged up on here." The Captain aimed a slow look around their little circle. From Miranda, who tilted her head and gave him a smile, to Billy who was visibly doing his best not to grin, to Abigail herself, who flustered a little at this scrutiny. "Fine. You'll have first pick."

Billy reached out to shake on this strange accord, and Abigail relaxed a little. Too soon, it turned out.

"So, Vane made you an offer yet?"

"Several," Billy nodded. "We've had to give him an… an alternative explanation for my being ashore with your approval, to get him to stop."

Lord, Abigail's cheeks were already heating.

"And which explanation would that be?"

Billy glanced at Abigail from the corners of his eyes and hesitated.

"We've introduced Abby as my niece," Miranda explained, observing the both of them with a gleam of amusement. "And when Captain Vane landed on the concept that Billy is ashore with your _blessing_ …" she let that word draw out.

"…he thinks you're here to court Miss Abby," Flint concluded with a grin. "Well, if it works—"

"You don't disapprove?" Abigail asked, almost startling herself with the question.

The Captain looked between her and Billy before shrugging easily. "I don't see that there's much to disapprove of," he said. "And I've certainly heard of worse cover stories. Hell, I've _used_ worse cover stories."

She darted her gaze to Billy, who seemed to be watching her with guarded concern, then nodded. "I don't mind either. And I suppose… I suppose it is a bit like being a spy, isn't it?" she asked, meeting Flint's gaze again. "Staying safe by hiding my true identity behind another plausible story."

Captain Flint cracked a smile at that. "Exactly which books _have_ you been reading during your stay?"

"At this point it might be easier to list the books she hasn't yet devoured," Miranda said, smiling indulgently.

 

* * *

 

As the afternoon began to cool, Billy and the Captain excused themselves from the ladies' company and went to see to the shed.

"You think Vane is going to be a problem?" Flint asked as they worked.

Billy thought about it a long moment. "I think he's found what he thought there was to find."

The Captain hummed an acknowledgement.

"He's been open about wanting to recruit me," Billy said after a pause. "I don't think he'd do anything to endanger anybody he thinks I care about.'

"He _thinks_ you care about. Mm-hmm."

Billy sighed and concentrated on hammering in the wooden wedge that would keep the support strut in place.

"I know you care for her," Flint said, when they were on the last strut. "But we're all still on the same page that she's going to Charles Town, correct?"

"Yes," Billy said immediately, too quick. "Of course. There is no other option."

It sure as shit wasn't an option to ask her to stay here, with him, no matter what happened with her father. What kind of life did he have to offer? No, she deserved the life her father could give her, that some rich gentleman could give her, and Billy wasn't going to be so selfish as to make going back to her life any harder than it needed to be. She would have to go to Charles Town sometime soon, and he knew it — not only was it inevitable, it was the best possible thing for her.

 

Billy saddled Marcus and made his way down to the beach shortly after dinner, having elected to enjoy the meal with the Captain, Mrs. Barlow, and Miss Abby rather than eat whatever stew the crew had managed to concoct. The sun was setting as he made his way down to the twinkling lights of town and the beach beyond it, a warm breeze blowing in off the ocean. It was strange being away from the homestead, and not feeling like he had to look over his shoulder every other minute, afraid to be recognised.

After leaving Marcus with the familiar stable hands at the tavern, Billy visited a few of the shops before they closed for the evening, then headed down to the beach to find the crew. It didn't take him long to find them, and when they caught sight of him they roared a greeting, coming to meet him and put a bottle in his hand, and pull him into the circle of the firelight.

Some time later, Silver dropped down to sit beside Billy in the sand. "Oh, thank fuck you're back," he said, sounding harried.

"Back?" Billy asked. He and Silver had never been close, they were barely civil to each other, he couldn't imagine the other man had missed him.

"Back with the crew," Silver clarified. "Back on the ship — back doing your job so I can go back to _not_ doing your job."

Billy watched him a long moment, mostly to make him squirm. "I'm not back."

Silver looked around the beach like he was missing the obvious. "And yet here you are. There was a letter, and now you're here, so I thought—"

"The letter wasn't the go-ahead," Billy said, shaking his head and cutting him off. "The letter was— don't even worry about it. It wasn't what we'd hoped for, so a reply is being sent." He smiled at Silver much the way he had when he'd first left him with Randall to peel potatoes. "So I guess you're stuck with my job for a bit longer."

Silver groaned and flopped flat on his back in the sand.

"De Groot just… keeps fucking— half the time he doesn't even go to _bed_ after middle watch," Silver groused. "Just sticks around and rides my ass about whatever it is I'm doing. Or not doing."

Billy made an acknowledging sound, trying not to grin.

"Keeps swearing at me in Dutch, too. Good language for invective, it seems."

Billy hummed. It had always seemed to him that Mr. De Groot could make any language work for invective.

"And your _watch_ , fuck, I don't know how you put up with these guys!" Silver gestured exasperatedly in the air above himself. "'Boss, what'dya want us to do?'" he imitated Joshua's voice. "Fuck if I know! Figure it out!"

Billy bit his lip to keep from laughing, because Joshua was an excellent sailor and rarely needed any instruction at all. Joshua should probably have been a candidate for the Quartermaster election, but he didn't play a crowd the way Silver could. If needed, he could run the watch better than Silver, and if there was any kind of sailing or weather emergency, Billy predicted that was exactly what would happen. Between Joshua, Flint, and De Groot, they would make sure Silver didn't fuck up anything irreversibly.

"Well, I told Vane I would come say hello next time I was in town," Billy said, pushing to his feet. "Good luck with— all that," he added, really not able to keep the grin off his face any longer. "De Groot gets milder once you show him you know what you're doing."

"Oh _that_ 's encouraging," Silver replied sourly from his position in the sand, and Billy shook his head, laughing to himself as he walked off in the direction of the _Ranger_ 's camp. He would enjoy telling Miss Abby about this later, maybe coax another laugh out of her with a description of Silver's dismay.

It was a strange thought, how much he was looking forward to returning to the homestead in the morning. How _relieved_ he was that they had agreed on the necessity of a second letter, that they had more time before the inevitable trip to Charles Town. It was stolen time, he knew that, and absolutely nothing could come of it, whether Lord Ashe agreed to meet with Flint or not. The longer this went on the worse it would be for him once she did return to her father, but he couldn't help being grateful for the extra time.

The _Ranger_ 's camp was relatively quiet, most of the crew apparently off enjoying time in town, but Billy found Vane easily enough, lounging near their fire. Vane himself was idly picking out a melody on one of those small Portuguese guitars, but stopped when Billy appeared at his campfire.  

"Bones!" he called cheerfully. "Been wondering when I'd be seeing you. You owe me some recruiting advice."

"Really? You didn't even come to seek me out. I thought that's what you did," Billy said, a little sharp, thinking of Mrs. Barlow and Miss Abby, cornered during their meal, even as he sat down in the sand near Vane.

Vane huffed a laugh, strummed a chord on his instrument. "Heard I met your lady, I take it?"

Billy bit down on the kneejerk reaction to say _she's not my lady_. "They mentioned you invited yourself to their meal, yeah."

"It was educational, to be sure. Meeting Flint's lady — where the hell did he find her? Kidnapped her at some London ball?" he waved the question away as rhetorical. "And your girl! I can see the appeal," he said, setting aside the guitar to root around for a bottle. "She has a wonderful blush."

Billy whipped his gaze toward the other man. " _What did you say to her?_ " he demanded. He'd thought— they'd _said_ it was fine, that he'd behaved reasonably civilised, that he hadn't been crude—

Vane shrugged, deliberately casual. "I just mentioned your name, that was all it took."

Billy tried not to think about what that meant. Maybe she'd just been alarmed by Vane's company, or flustered by trying to come up with a convincing explanation for Billy's presence.

"Plus, allying yourself that closely to Flint — kind of brilliant, really."

Billy curled his hands into fists at the thought that anybody would marry Miss Abby for those sorts of reasons, let alone that _he_ would do so. Then he noticed Vane's sudden, shit-eating grin.

Fuck, he was being way too transparent, he'd just given Vane exactly what he was looking for. That it wasn't something that hurt for Vane to know— it would only confirm the version of the situation Vane had in his head— didn't mean that others couldn't also see. His care for Miss Abby was clearly far too close to the surface if it could be gotten out of him so easily. Shit, Silver had been _right_.

"How are things with Miss Guthrie?" Billy asked maliciously.

"Oh, fuck you," Vane said without heat, and offered him the bottle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vane is playing a machete, the predecessor of the ukulele, for those interested. :D


	15. XV

When she'd gotten as much of her letter on paper as she could, Abigail put her writing things away and returned to the main room of the house. She'd been aware of the Captain's voice, a soft, steady rumble in the background, for a while now. As she quietly entered the main room, she trailed to a halt at what she found. Captain Flint, sitting on one end of the sofa with a book in his hand. Miranda, stretched out on her back with her head propped up on his thigh, her feet toward the fire.

He was reading to her in a low, warm tone, and his free hand was on Miranda's head, fingertips making little circles in her unbound hair. Her eyes were closed, and when he paused momentarily to look up when Abigail entered the room, Miranda made a soft, encouraging little hum.

Abigail knew there was nothing untoward about this, nothing not suited for another's eyes, but the intimacy of it nonetheless took her breath for a moment. When she'd considered what a marriage might be like, she'd never thought to picture anything like this. It seemed like an oversight on her part, all of a sudden.  

A few sentences later, when she still hadn't moved, the Captain paused to gesture at one of the chairs by the fire, indicating that she might join them, and Abigail did so. From her pocket she produced her comb — the comb Billy had bought for her in town, that first night in Nassau — and undid her braid, settling in to listen. Dulce, having been curled up in her bed, came over to flop down by Abigail's feet.

The reading resumed, and Abigail tried to pay attention, but it was hard to pick up the thread, this far into the story. It was one of the books the Captain had brought with him today, something he'd clearly already read aboard ship. Abigail thought that he'd perhaps wanted to share this passage in particular with Miranda.

She'd seen him read, back when she was on the _Revenge_. It was a strange thought — and strangely endearing — to think that he might have been marking pages, intending to read them to his lady later, in moments much like this one.

She'd been so terribly intimidated by him then, especially those first days at sea. Every time he'd looked her way she'd instinctively frozen. Abigail idly wondered if that had bothered him.

It had been three weeks since Captain Flint and the _Revenge_ crew rescued her, and it was dizzying to think how completely her world had changed. She vividly remembered how terrified she had been, all the stories his name had brought to mind. Thinking back now, she could see all the places he had gone out of his way to put her at ease, to make her aware of her freedom and agency. Miranda's letter had been a comfort at the time, on a day when Abigail had woken locked in a cell.

_Allow me to reassure you: he is an ally to you, as am I._

She could not have imagined this scene, the day she read that letter: an evening by the fire with the fearsome Captain James Flint and the regal Lady Miranda Hamilton, and their sweet dog named for a fictional heroine. She could not have imagined this quiet farm life she had grown to love so quickly, could not have imagined being this _happy_ , perhaps ever again, much less so soon. It was a fleeting thing, but so strong in moments like this, or while learning new things with Miranda, or discussing books with Billy during the heat of the afternoon.

For a long moment at lunch, she had thought this was all ending, and she had felt— Abigail wondered, in retrospect, which would have hurt worse: a letter from her father that resulted in her leaving for Charles Town in the morning, or a letter in which he didn't even address her, only referred to her like a piece of stolen cargo.

Eventually a letter would come to strike some sort of bargain to bring her to Charles Town. She had done what she could in this second letter to her father to convince him of the rightness of Flint's plan, but one way or another a reply would come, and she would lose this fragile life here.

It was small consolation that her experiences here might make adjusting to life in Charles Town easier, that her ability to find happiness so quickly here spoke well of her chances once she was reunited with her father. Find allies and build a new life again; it was the only option she had.

But Abigail would miss this, with an ache that was difficult to face. At her feet, Dulce huffed, nosing at her ankles before settling down sleepily, and she leaned down to scratch the dog behind the ears. For just a moment, her gaze was drawn to the other chair, the one Billy usually took when Miranda read to them in the evenings, empty now.

He had said he'd be back in the morning, had promised Flint he would stay while they again waited for her father's reply. Weeks more for Billy to be away from his crew, but for Abigail — maybe it was selfish, but it would not be a hardship at all.

"Darling, I'm tired," Miranda said softly when the Captain seemed ready to start the next chapter. She was smiling up at him, her head tilted back, not looking very tired at all, Abigail thought.

"Let's get you to bed then, my sweet," he agreed easily, marking the page and laying the book carefully aside. Then, rather than both getting to their feet as Abigail had expected, he pulled her into his lap for a kiss to her forehead. She made a happy little sound that made Abigail smile. The Captain slipped his arms under her back and knees and pushed to his feet with a soft grunt.

He made to walk off toward Miranda's bedroom, but paused for a very dignified, "Goodnight, Miss Abby."

"Sleep well," Miranda said, her face turned against his shoulder but her smile audible.

"And... you also," Abigail said, just a touch too slow to be natural. Her cheeks were heating at the obvious fact that they were not going to bed to sleep.

They disappeared into the main bedroom, door closing behind them with a soft click, and Abigail just sat there for a while, unsure what to do. She ought to seek her own bed, but the wall between the bedrooms wasn't very thick, and the prospect of overhearing whatever the Captain and Miranda might be doing in there—

It wasn't as off-putting as it ought to have been. The realisation filled her with shame. Did she _want_ to overhear them? Would going to bed mean she was doing something so indecent as seeking it out?

She heard a soft laugh from behind that closed door, the Captain, low and warm, and realised to her dismay that she'd be hearing them even if she stayed here by the fire. There appeared to be no way to escape it, and it was almost a relief that the decision was taken out of her hands.

 _Oh, but you_ **_are_ ** _hurt!_

_Bruises don't count, my sweet. I thought we agreed on this._

There was a silence, and then sounds that Abigail imagined were kissing.

_Fine. I shall endeavor to be very, very careful with you._

_Don't you dare._

They didn't talk for a long time after that, but the house was far from quiet.

Banking the fire and leaving Dulce asleep on her bed by the hearth, Abigail crept through the house, securing the doors and dousing the lights as she passed, trying to be as quiet as possible. She went about her bedtime routine in the same manner, and then lay in bed in the dark, listening.

What little she had been taught about the marriage bed — and that raised another question, were Miranda and the Captain married? — had referred to it as _marital duties_ , necessary to produce children and satisfy one's husband. It had not seemed to suggest much in the way of enjoyment on the woman's side, let alone enthusiasm.

It all seemed very much at odds with what she couldn't help but overhear now. Despite not having any frame of reference for which acts might be causing them, the soft sounds of enjoyment from both, the rhythmic creak of the bed, the occasional chuckle, and Miranda's breathless gasp of, ' _Ohh, don't stop, don't stop, that feels so_ **_good_** ,' painted a picture of affection and enjoyment that had Abigail feeling warm and flustered, unsure what to do with herself.

She couldn't help but feel her thoughts drift to what Billy might be doing on his free night in town. If he'd welcomed the opportunity to take a break from his duties on the homestead to go to the brothel, perhaps?

She abruptly schooled her thoughts when she found them drifting toward the question if he could make a woman as pleased as Miranda sounded. If he'd care to, if she was one of the working girls. Or if she weren't.

No, she should not be thinking about that, about him, in this manner. Rather she tried to imagine a future husband. Some good, kind gentleman who would read with her by the fire in the evenings, and then carry her to bed to engage in something she hardly had the words for, but which would be gentle and considerate and mutually pleasurable.

She wondered if it was possible for such a man to exist. And if he existed, if he would wish to be wedded to her.

 

* * *

 

Billy woke up on the beach, a little chilled from having apparently fallen asleep in the sand without so much as a blanket. The fire had long since died.

He blinked around muzzily in the pre-dawn light. The _Ranger_ camp...? He'd been drinking with Vane, he remembered that. Must not have wanted to bother stumbling back to his own crew. He certainly felt hungover enough. Vane was asleep a few paces away, his long coat covering him.

Billy got to his feet as quietly as he could, given his uneasy stomach and aching head, and stumbled through the soft sand up toward the tavern. The stable hands were already up, and after drinking water from one of the horse buckets, cupped in his hands and letting it rinse the foul taste from his mouth until his stomach protested, Billy saddled Marcus and got underway.

Arriving back at the homestead hungover wasn't exactly the impression he'd been looking to make, either on Mrs. Barlow and Miss Abby, or on the Captain. Hopefully it was early enough that they were all still abed. At least the Captain and Mrs. Barlow likely would be, he thought.

The sun was just coming over the horizon when he arrived at the homestead. Dulce came out to the gate on hearing a horse, but recognised him before she barked, and nobody else seemed to stir just yet.

After he'd stabled Marcus, Billy passed the well on the way to his room. He could feel yesterday's sweat and salt and sand on his skin. He normally washed inside by the basin, using one of Mrs. Barlow's nice pitchers. Outside here at the well looked vastly more convenient to him right this moment though, where he didn't have to worry about splashing. And while nobody was yet awake, he needn't worry about the impropriety of it.

It barely took a moment to convince himself this should be perfectly fine, and he drew up a bucket of water, putting it on the bench by the well. He took off the sash and weapons he'd worn while he was in Nassau, the beads he wore around his neck. Then his shirt, which was stained with beer and sand that had stuck to it.

Feeling strangely liberated by this, and with his head slowly beginning to clear, he splashed water onto his face and head, rubbing his shorn hair to loosen the sand from it. He used the cup that was kept near the well to pour water over his shoulders and back, rubbing down his skin to clean himself.

Dulce was dancing around him as he washed, jumping at errant drops, and he indulged her by tossing the last bit from the cup in arcs for her to leap for, grinning at the young dog's playfulness.

He began pouring more water over his shoulders and chest for a final rinse when Dulce suddenly stilled and then headed back to the house. He automatically followed her with his eyes and—

Oh, _fuck._

Miss Abby was standing at the corner of the house, watching him, and as his eyes met hers, her hand flew up to cover her mouth, in alarm or perhaps embarrassment, he wasn't sure. For a long moment they seemed suspended in time, unable to break away. Then Dulce nudged at Miss Abby's other hand and she jolted into motion, turning around and retreating to the front of the house.

"Fuck," Billy muttered, quickly gathering up his things and heading into the servant's quarters on this side of the house.

Definitely not the impression he'd wanted to make.

 

* * *

 

To her relief, Billy hadn't come after her to— what, to apologise? She supposed he'd had no reason to think anybody would be up yet at that hour, it certainly wasn't the routine at the homestead. It wasn't his fault that she'd been woken before dawn by sounds from the other bedroom, and had elected to go sit outside with her letter rather than dwell on them. Then she'd heard splashing and Dulce's playful sounds around the corner, and—  

Well. Now she had plenty to dwell on after all.

 

Breakfast was a late affair, and Abigail tried not to blush furiously as Miranda and the Captain emerged, dressed for the day and appearing not at all bothered or self-conscious. Billy was quiet, though judging by the way he squinted against the morning light and flinched when Dulce barked, it was more to do with his adventures the previous night than with their unfortunate early morning encounter. Together the four of them discussed the letter to her father she'd been writing, and Abigail was surprised that they had only a few suggestions, mostly leaving it to her discretion.

The Captain left soon after breakfast, taking the finished letter with him to send on to Charles Town, and life at the homestead resumed its previous sedate pace. They worked in the garden until lunch, and then read quietly for the siesta hour after, though Abigail had a hard time keeping her mind on her book. When the afternoon began to cool, Billy went to start work on the shed again, saying he hoped to get as much done on it as he could before dinner.

Miranda and Abigail lingered inside tidying up from lunch, then assembling the meat pie for dinner and setting it to bake. All the while, Abigail could hear the sounds of Billy working outside, and try as she might she could not keep hold of the thread of conversation with Miranda. Her mind drifted to the sounds outside, the sounds last night, the sight of Billy by the well this morning, any number of other places it certainly had no place being.

With the pie set to bake, Abigail wiped her hands on a dishcloth and drifted towards the large front windows. Though it was still several hours until dinner, she could see that Billy had made significant progress on the shed already. His shirt was sweat-soaked, sticking to him as he worked, and Abigail considered and then dismissed the idea of bringing him some cool water to drink. She thought of the day of the rope pulling contest, the buckets of seawater the men had drawn up, how she'd fled from the sight then, but then this morning at the well...

Abigail looked over to find Miranda watching her with a perceptive glint in her eye, and wished she had any control over the way her cheeks glowed at the realisation she'd been caught staring.

"Tea, I think," Miranda said, as though nothing at all had happened. "Around the back of the house, wouldn't you agree?"

When they were settled at the small table with their tea things, the gleam was back in Miranda's eyes, but her voice was mild as she said, "You have told me a little of your education, my dear. Under the direction of Mary Astell, if I'm not mistaken?"

"Yes," Abigail answered as Miranda sipped her tea, unsure of where this was going.

"I've read most of her publications, even proofread a manuscript for her a time or two, at one point in my life," she said, looking wistful for a moment. "Tell me, how did her ideas on education in the fields of biology and physiology work out for you?"

Abigail took a long sip of her tea, feeling her cheeks burn again, and tried to find the words.

"Ah," Miranda said, apparently not needing Abigail to speak. "Just enough to leave you with more questions, I take it. Let me guess: not appropriate for young ladies?"

"More or less," she replied, finally finding her voice. "They promised to send me into marriage well-equipped, though, Mistress Astell and Lady Chudleigh and the others. They wrote me letters to read before some future wedding in the New World, but they were lost with the _Good Fortune_."

"Oh my dear, I am so sorry," Miranda said sympathetically. "I cannot make up for their loss, but I can promise to replace the knowledge they surely contained. Anything you want to know at all."

Abigail was quiet for what felt like overly long, trying to form something of a concrete question out of a nebulous cloud of mysteries. The things she had absorbed about a woman's marital duties, the things she'd overheard last night, the things the men aboard the _Revenge_ had boasted about — three completely different universes that somehow seemed to refer to the same human behaviour, but she couldn't figure out how any of it intersected.

"I feel like I do not even understand enough to know which questions to ask," she admitted finally.

"That is understandable, given the way specifics were kept from you," Miranda said. "Shall we begin with what commonly goes on in the marriage bed, and then from there move on to less common acts, and less common, or at least less commonly accepted, types of... beds?"

Abigail nodded in relief, grateful for the guidance, and sat back to sip her tea and listen with interest.

 

"...and so you see that in many things," Miranda said, "it is not necessarily the act itself that defines whether it is pleasurable, but the intent of those participating in it, and how one feels about them. Something that might be painful and frightening in one situation, could well bring radiant delight in another situation, with a partner who cares to make it enjoyable.

"And of course it helps to know one's own body well enough to know what brings it pleasure," she went on. "One can scarcely expect a man, even one not inexperienced, to know what would feel good if you yourself do not know, and if you do not guide him toward what feels best."

"But what if he— what if my future husband thought me wanton, shameless, for expressing such desires?"

Miranda poured them both more tea, taking a long moment to prepare her answer.

"When I married Thomas, we were both young, and he scarcely more experienced than I," she began. "And I had ideas much the same as you started out with; that the marriage bed was my duty, and pleasure on my side of little relevance."

Abigail nodded. It was strangely heartening to think Miranda hadn't started out the wise and poised woman she was now; that she had developed herself, and that Abigail might do the same.

"In the first days of our marriage, intercourse was uncomfortable, even painful. I had been taught to expect this, and to bear it as was my duty," she gave the last word a wry twist. "But one time I must have made a sound of pain, and Thomas was — he was _horrified_. He cried, for having hurt me, and for having let me think that speaking out would make him think less of me. We decided that between us there could be no shame, for shame of speaking out, of pursuing pleasure, would never allow for the union of joy we wanted to create between us."

Abigail hesitated, desperately wanting to know about what things were like with Flint, surely a very different sort of man, but recognising that she couldn't possibly ask.

 _Union of joy_. Abigail wanted that for herself, in every aspect. It was hard to imagine in this moment, never having met anybody in Charles Town, but maybe Miranda's hope that there would be some free-thinking men who would value her for who she was would come true. She had to hope.

"And how... " she trailed off. Miranda took pity.   

"Are you interested in hearing about the less common beds?"

Abigail nodded, apparently not quite beyond blushing despite all the subjects that had already been covered.

 

"Of course, a relationship need not be a marriage, and a relationship need not be a man and a woman, either," Miranda said some time later.

Abigail frowned, unsure where this was going. She wasn't really aware that there were other options.

"Some people are attracted to both men and women, or only to men, or only to women. It is not unheard of that a man might love and form a relationship with a man, or a woman with a woman."

She blinked in surprise, taking a moment to process this. The way Miranda said it made it seem the most natural and obvious thing in the world, akin one person preferring blue and another green.

"But is that not..." she gestured helplessly, a lifetime of church sermons coming up against the wise, rational woman sitting next to her.

"Sinful?" Miranda supplied. "Unnatural?"

Abigail nodded.

"Which do you find most beautiful, the sunrise or the sunset?" Miranda asked.

Abigail frowned in consternation at this strange side-path, and such an impossible question.

"They are each... beautiful at different times, and in different ways?" she answered slowly, unsure what this had to do with anything.

"Aren't they just? And wouldn't it be terribly sad if society decided that we might only ever enjoy one of them?"

"...yes?" she answered uncertainly, and then, thinking on the absurdity of that choice, "Yes."

"So it is with love, and what the eye finds pleasing. There is no right nor wrong way to go about it, so long as all those involved are willing."

"And are such... relationships common in Nassau?"

"Not common, perhaps, but not unheard of, either, and certainly more common than in London. Or perhaps it is more that people don't go to quite the same lengths to hide them, here. Many relationships of this sort are conducted quite openly here, with no fear of reprisal, much less legal consequences, as in England. I would hazard to guess that you have already encountered at least one couple who falls into this category," Miranda said, before taking a sip of tea.

The idea gave Abigail pause, and she thought back over the people she had met since coming ashore. It was common for women to keep to the company of women, especially in Nassau where it wasn't terribly safe for a woman on her own. Yet hadn't she... she remembered the way Miss Bonny had leaned in close to speak into Mistress Max's ear, the way their bodies had seemed to turn toward each other. It had been a sort of intimacy Abigail had never seen before arriving on New Providence, an intimacy only rivalled by the way Miranda and Captain Flint seemed to disappear into each other with a simple touch of their hands.

"But how do— the act, I understand it need not only be in a marriage bed, and for some people, well, isn't," Abigail said hesitantly, thinking of the pirate crew and the 'girls' in the brothel. "But is that not... I mean... I don't understand how the, uh, anatomy of these... other...  situations might work?"

"Well, I suppose if one thinks of intercourse only as the act which might produce children, it would seem as if there is either a surplus of anatomy, or a lack of it," Miranda said, with a glimmer of amusement in her eyes.  

Abigail took a sip of tea, unsure how to voice her interest. Thankfully her friend did not insist on her asking.

"There are many things one might do with hands and mouths that are deeply enjoyable, my dear. And that one would be wise to insist upon even in a relationship between a man and a woman, both for variety, and because for many women these methods are necessary to reach a peak of pleasure."

 

"...and that is a thing..." Abigail finally said slowly, her eyes fixed on the table, "that a man might enjoy doing?"

"A good man will enjoy bringing you pleasure, my dear."

"I heard some of the pirates mention this act, I think. Before they went to the... the brothel."

Miranda tilted her head, considering.

"I hadn't thought of that, but I suppose... if a pirate favours one of the women there, and would like her to favour him in return, he might pay extra attention to her pleasure. It is a transaction, but that doesn't mean it could not also be enjoyable for both. There are many different beds besides a marriage bed."

Abigail scraped up her courage. "Are you and Captain Flint married?"

Miranda did not look angry or annoyed, as Abigail had feared. She only smiled slightly, perhaps a little wistful. "We are not. It seemed inadvisable to ally myself to him so officially. Though I suppose by now we might be considered married by common law."

"And you love one another?" She wasn't even sure why she asked that. After seeing them together yesterday there could be little doubt.

"Yes."

"Then isn't it very difficult to have to miss him for weeks at a time, sometimes even longer?"

"Oh of course it is, but he does not require me to be lonely in the meantime."

Abigail gasped involuntarily at that casual comment, because what was implied went so directly against everything she'd ever been taught, it was hard even wrap her mind around it.   

Miranda merely looked amused at her shock.

"Not all men demand a woman be tied to them as if in marriage, my dear. And even in marriage, some are..." she looked out towards the gardens for a long moment, seeming very far away. "...open minded," she finally finished, softly.

"How do you mean?" Abigail felt greatly daring, asking.

"You have wondered how Captain Flint and I came to form our relationship. Truth is, when he was a Lieutenant in the Navy, he worked closely with my dear husband Thomas. They grew to be the best of friends, and when Thomas saw that I had... taken an interest in James, he encouraged me to explore it."

"He _encouraged_ it?" Abigail had only ever heard of unfaithfulness in terms of a husband taking a mistress, his wife trying not to know about it. A wife taking a lover was only spoken of in hushed tones, when Abigail was not supposed to be able to overhear. Her husband _encouraging_ it...

"Yes, my dear, no need to sound so shocked. Have you never had a moment where two people you like very much meet each other, and then they get on well? Some people get jealous in that moment, and others take great enjoyment from it."

Abigail nodded slowly. She remembered when she'd introduced two of her society friends for the first time, and what a thrill it had been that they liked each other.

"It gave Thomas joy to see his wife and best friend enjoy one another, and once James understood there was no resentment, it brought all of us closer together. Between the three of us we were very happy for a time."

Abigail's head felt like it was overflowing with the new information, both about physical acts (oh _Lord_ , she now had a much better idea of what she'd overheard the previous night, and it was a good thing the Captain had already left because she might not be able to look at him without blushing for the foreseeable future) and ideas about the shapes a relationship might take. Though how it all related to herself she hardly knew where to start. Much of it surely wouldn't fit in the life she expected to lead with her future husband.

"But as in everything we've discussed today, what truly matters is what _you_ want, my dear," Miranda said. "That is what you must discover."

 

* * *

 

Over the course of his stay on the homestead, Billy had found himself learning a great many new things about women. It wasn't that he'd ever considered women as strange otherworldly beings, mostly that since being pressed into the Navy, his time spent with women had been limited to contact with shopkeepers, the occasional mild flirtation with a serving girl, and the rare times he'd gone to a brothel.  

So it had been a strange world he'd found himself in, living on land in a homestead when his only previous time living in a house had been his parent's narrow little townhouse in London, not this isolated place with seemingly endless gardens and repairs to keep up with. Moreover, sharing the space with two ladies, and particularly, being in a space that felt more their territory than his, had been entirely new.

Initially he'd excused himself whenever the conversation turned to, well, lady subjects. It wasn't that he felt embarrassed or uncomfortable being present during some of their conversations — he was a pirate, he hadn't much in the way of shame left — but rather that he'd assumed that they, and especially Miss Abby, might feel more comfortable without his presence.

Mrs. Barlow however encouraged him to stay more often than not, and he had learned a great many things about ladies' underclothes — and just how many layers they were expected to wear, it sounded quite intolerable to him — and all sorts of other subjects. If he had expected them to be delicate of such matters, he had been utterly wrong.

Yesterday afternoon though, Mrs. Barlow had made a point of having tea with Miss Abby around the back of the house, out of Billy's earshot, so he had made sure to give them privacy. Presumably they were talking about — well, lady subjects? Things more personal? He'd tried not to speculate. By dinnertime, things had gone back to normal, though Miss Abby had been a little quieter than usual, and had retired early with a book rather than read with them by the fire.

He'd thought nothing of it, but this morning she wouldn't look at him, seeming to go from distracted to startled by his presence, often accompanied by a deep blush.

Breakfast was... peculiar, Miss Abby noticeably absent in their conversation, Mrs. Barlow indulgently amused at the younger woman's odd mood. And later when they took a break from gardening and he peeled an orange fruit to share between the three of them, Miss Abby was staring at his hands in a way that seemed both distracted and strangely intent. He gently dug in his fingers at the top of the fruit to split it, and she made a little squeaking sound and abruptly rose to go to her room.

"Is... Miss Abby quite all right?" he asked Mrs. Barlow, who chuckled softly.

"She is fine. She has merely discovered... Shall we say, some aspects to herself in relation to the world around her that are new to her."

Billy watched the retreating form of Miss Abby, thinking of her blushes all morning, and decided he quite definitely did not need to know.


	16. XVI

It hardly seemed fair, in Abigail's view, that barely two days after her rather _enlightening_ conversation with Miranda — not to mention the dreams that had helpfully added images, afterward — the two of them found themselves sitting through a sermon on modesty and chastity. The small church was stuffy as it was, and thankfully Miranda had chosen them a seat on a pew near the back, closer to the breeze, Abigail's unending blush making the heat all the worse.

The sermon seemed aimed directly at the pirates of Nassau, the pastor most insistent that his God-fearing parish should avoid any and all contact with Nassau and those living in it. He raged on about _harlots, fornicators, and sodomites_ , banging the pulpit to emphasise the rightness of his words. Miranda must have felt Abigail's flinch, as from beside her, she caught Abigail's gaze and then quite deliberately rolled her eyes. Abigail had to bite her lip to keep from smiling.

Miranda fixed the pastor with a frosty look for a moment, then opened her Bible and began reading silently, with every appearance of piety. She leaned closer to allow Abigail a clear view of the verses, and — oh, _The Song of Songs_ , oh of course. If she did have to blush her way through a church service, at least it would be a result of reading poetry, rather than from listening to the hateful views of the pastor.

After the service, the congregation filtered into the shade cast by the afternoon sun on the church. Miranda did her utmost to keep their paths from crossing that of the pastor's as they made a brief social circuit, more for appearances than out of any genuine interest in socialising with their neighbours.

Mrs. Paulson waved them over from the bench she had commandeered. At seven months pregnant, no one in the congregation was going to dispute her claim. They chatted pleasantly while Mrs. Paulson kept one eye on her husband, who was speaking with several of the other landowners in a little cluster to their left, and her two children, chasing each other with some of the other local children off to their right.

"I tell you, I do not know what I will do when this one is born," she said, running her palm over her swollen belly. "More children than hands, I don't know what I was thinking. If there was honest help to be found anywhere on this island— but I fear I will have to send to Barbados to find anyone suitable, and they may well arrive after this one does."

"I do know of someone here on New Providence who is looking for work in the Interior, Mrs. Paulson," Abigail offered, the connection suddenly fitting together in her head. "Recently arrived from Port Royal, and used to work as a lady's maid, I believe. If she might be a help to you, I could make the introductions."

"Oh you dear girl," Mrs. Paulson said, taking her hands. "That would be so very much appreciated. I do hope you are this helpful to your aunt on that little farm of hers?"

"I certainly strive to be, ma'am," Abigail replied, smiling. She hadn't heard anyone refer to Miranda as her aunt so casually, and it left her with such a warm sense of belonging, unlooked for but so welcome.

 

"That was well done," Miranda said as they walked to their cart, arm in arm.

"Mistress Max will be glad of it, I think," Abigail replied.

"I don't doubt it," Miranda agreed. "You have been a help to me, you know," she said after a pause. "You and Billy both."

"I am glad to hear it," she said sincerely. "It is so lovely to feel _useful_. I wish our time here didn't have to end."

"I wish that too, my dear," Miranda said, leaning her head against Abigail's for a moment. "But I suppose it must come to an end, eventually. Is there anything you had hoped to do with your time here that we've not yet seen to?"

Abigail thought a moment. "I should quite like to visit that little cove again, feel the seawater on my feet."

"Or perhaps more, if you are willing?" Miranda asked, a playful gleam in her eyes. "I could teach you to swim? Tomorrow, even, if the weather holds clear?"

"Ooh, yes, let's."

 

* * *

 

Billy pulled his hat deeper over his face as they walked home in the late afternoon sun. The day had been… interesting. Just ahead of him walked Miss Abby and Mrs. Barlow.

Both ladies were sunburned and slightly sandy, their long braids— and likely their underclothes, but he was trying not to think about that— damp with seawater still. Mrs. Barlow had mentioned treating their reddened skin with the gel from a plant she grew, and Billy had had enough visuals filling his mind right now, thank you very much.

"I have business in town tonight," he said when they returned to the homestead.

It'd been nearly a week since Flint's visit, and he needed a break, needed to be away from them for a while, before he started saying the things that were on his mind. He'd been glad that his stay at the homestead had become a comfortable situation for all three of them, but apparently there was such a thing as being _too_ comfortable.  

"Give Marcus his feed first, will you?" Mrs. Barlow said only.

 

Luckily for Billy, Vane was where he'd expected him, in his beach camp while most of his men were in the brothel. It was strange, Billy had never really thought of himself as a pirate in the way some of the others did, as if being anything else was unthinkable. It was just where he'd ended up in life. But dropping down in the sand next to Vane, grabbing the bottle and putting it to his lips, he'd never been so relieved to be among people who knew exactly what being a pirate was like.

"Christ, Bones, what the fuck?" Vane grumbled at the sudden theft of his bottle.

Billy took a long gulp and then handed back the bottle, panting a little bit.

"The hell happened to you?"

"Jesus suffering fuck," Billy summarised his own state of mind.

It took him a good while to put words to his swirling thoughts.

"Vane, you ever been trusted? Like really _trusted_ , in a way you're not sure you're worthy of?"

Vane didn't answer, only took back the bottle for a swig. He made a considering noise, but Billy didn't really need him to reply. Now he'd started, words just kept spilling from his mouth.

"They went swimming. _Swimming._ Found a little cove and I stood guard and they stripped down to their shifts and went into the water. While I was standing there with my back turned, listening to them splash and laugh."

"Christ," Vane muttered, getting up and disappearing into his tent. Billy heard the sounds of him rummaging in a wooden chest, and then he came back out, biting into the cork of a fancy looking bottle. He pocketed the cork and took a considering swig, making an approving noise.

He dropped back down into the sand and offered Billy the bottle. He took it and sniffed, not sure what it was. Some kind of wine?

"Fortified wine," Vane said. "Out of Portugal."

Billy took a sip. It was sweet, going down dangerously easy.

"Seemed like it needed a special occasion, and this sounds like one," Vane said with a grin, and Billy almost choked on the wine.

"Do my… adventures today warrant your special booze?"

"Sure. Celebrate that your girl trusts you, or lament that she was right to, whichever."

"Thanks. You're a real friend," Billy said, maybe not quite as sarcastically as he'd intended.

Vane grinned broadly, clapping Billy on the shoulder just a little too hard.

"You've earned it, one way or another," he said, retrieving the bottle of rum Billy had originally grabbed and clinking it against the bottle of port.

 

Billy very carefully took the tack off Marcus and stored it away, then slowly and deliberately rubbed the horse down, very conscious of his own body in the way you only became when you were deep into your cups. He put an armful of hay into the stall and double checked that there was water. He was well aware that his goodwill in this place would dry up fast if he neglected or mistreated Marcus. Maybe some more hay? Yeah, definitely more.

He was drunkerer than he'd been in a good long while, and the idea of facing Mrs. Barlow in this state, let alone Miss Abby, filled him with vague dread. He couldn't do that. Christ, no. He was supps—suppo— _meant_ to be their guard, he very definitely wasn't meant to get drunk as a Lord on Vane's prize port, or ride back to the homestead deep in the night. It had taken a while. He hadn't felt up to trotting. Or maybe Marcus had just flat out refused to go above a walk, given the way Billy had been listing in the saddle. He wasn't entirely sure he hadn't dozed off for part of the ride.

He just hoped the ladies were asleep. Dulce had barked twice, and then recognised the horse — and possibly Billy — and shut up. She nosed his hand now, sleepy-eyed herself.  

Yeah, sleep, that did sound good. His cabin… no… wasn't a ship, didn't have cabins… quarters? _Room,_ that's what it was, his room in the house seemed like a long way away though, and the haystack just outside the horse's stall was looking increasingly inviting. Without remembering a conscious decision to do so, he found himself curling up into the fragrant mass, plenty soft under his head.

 

"Billy!"

He'd moved a few paces off the trail that lead down into the cove, into the shade of a convenient tree. It afforded him full view of whoever might approach — not that that seemed likely — and also made the angle of the rock wall block the cove itself from his immediate view. It was a relief not to have to fight his own reflex to look around every time he heard a sound behind him.

"Billy?"

Except of course, the ladies couldn't see him anymore either.

"Still here," he called down.

"Billy, come on," he heard Miss Abby, much closer than she ought to have been, and he looked before he could think the better of it. _Christ_. She was in her long shift, the fabric damp and clinging to her, showing him way more of her body than he ought to be seeing. He sharply directed his eyes to her face, sunburnt and smiling at him.

"Come on, the water is so lovely," she said, still with that smile, open, inviting. Not at all like she was worried about being seen by him. She held out her hand to him, and he went to her as if in a dream, reservations disappearing like dawn fog under the first sunlight.

She took his hand and led him down the path into the cove. Mrs. Barlow wasn't there, but somehow that didn't seem strange to him.  

"Come on," Miss Abby said, turning on him when he halted at the waterline. "Are you going to swim in your clothes?"

She waded into the water, her shift now billowing around her, now clinging to her skin as she went deeper. He didn't take his eyes off of her while kicking off his boots, only for a second while taking off his shirt. He was allowed to look, and so he looked, and—

"What's keeping you?" she laughed over her shoulder. "Come on, Billy!"

"Billy? Are you quite all ri—"

He opened his eyes with a groan, most certainly not ready to wake from _that_ dream, and looked into Miss Abby's concerned eyes. Billy felt his face go red with the memory of the images that had been in his thoughts only moments ago.

"I worried when you hadn't seemed to have come home, but then I noticed Marcus was back. He has… rather a lot of hay."

She sounded amused, and he groaned again, having some vague memory of 'another armful, just to be sure'.

"Are you sick?"

"Uh," his voice sounded ruined, a strange rumble, and he swallowed thickly. "No, I'm…"

"Or is this to do with that saying about being a man in the evening?" she asked with amusement.

Billy was becoming acutely aware that he was laying sprawled out in the hay, still more drunk than hungover. And that Miss Abby was standing over him, face flushed with, likely, both sunburn and embarrassment. He had a moment of panic that he'd taken off his shirt to sleep, but no, thankfully he was wearing it.

"It may... have to do with, that, yeah" he admitted, groggily looking around to check Mrs. Barlow hadn't come too. "I am fine. I will, uh, get ready and be by the house soon."

"All right." Her eyes lingered on him a moment longer before she turned around and left for the house.

"Jesus _Christ_ , Bones," he muttered when she was safely out of earshot. His ears still burned at the thought of his dream.

 

There hadn't been any real recriminations from his drunken misadventure, though Mrs. Barlow's obvious amusement had been enough price to pay. When he'd made to apologise, she'd only said "If all anybody did while drunk was to feed their horse too much hay and then fall asleep in the stable, the world would be a better place, Mr. Manderly," and the subject (but not his hangover) had been dismissed with that.

Nonetheless, when a few days later they celebrated Miss Abby's birthday with the bottle of Madeira wine the Captain had brought them for the occasion, Billy only took a glass to toast with the ladies, and otherwise stuck to water. Coming home drunk and facing them afterward was one thing; sitting here _getting_ drunk, when just any thought might fall out of his mouth, quite another.

It was a pleasant evening, a light, cooling breeze lifting the heat off the thick stone walls of the house, and they'd brought out the cushions, making for extra comfort on the outside seats. There were only two of the small crystal glasses Mrs. Barlow brought out, so Billy got his wine from one of the normal earthenware cups, but it all felt very festive. They toasted to Miss Abby's birthday and 'A wonderful future in her new life,' and despite Billy's mixed feelings about her impending departure, he found it easy enough to say it and mean it. He did wish her every happiness, wherever it would be.   

The ladies had been to church again the day before, and Billy listened to their happy chatter about what it had been like, amused by how their focus in retelling made it sound a lot more like a secret mission than a social occasion. He supposed it had been a mission of sorts for Miss Abby — to present herself to the parish as Miss Abby Barlow from Barbados, with the right stories and answers to any questions, and no hint of anything that might bring to mind the name Ashe. He knew the ladies had rehearsed the cover story in detail beforehand, so it was enjoyable to see Miss Abby's triumph at having been successful.

"Billy, have you ever been… under cover?" Miss Abby tipped her head to the side against the high backrest of her seat, looking lazily, bonelessly comfortable. She was beginning to sound a little slow and deliberate, but he supposed if it was ever harmless for her to get a bit drunk, this was the moment.

"Haven't you heard, I'm a farmhand now?" he asked with a grin, gesturing toward the hook where his straw hat hung.

"Oh yes!" she smiled back. "I hear Mister De… De Groot is very dism— upset, about that."

"He likes having me around is all, I take the sailing more seriously than some," he said with a shrug. "Any hint that I might want to give it up, or otherwise leave the _Revenge_ , even if Flint is only mentioning it to mess with him, I can see how it might put De Groot on edge, yeah."

"Would you ever give it up?" she asked next. "If the right sort of other life came along?"

He knew she wasn't asking, ' _would you give it up to build a life with me?'_ but he couldn't help the way his thoughts strayed there anyway. If she really were Abby Barlow, if they were both free to choose that future...

"The piracy I could give up, I suppose. The sailing would be more difficult. I've spent so much of my life at sea for so long, it's hard to imagine anything else. Even having experienced life here for a bit."

"A merchant captain, perhaps," Miss Abby said.

"In these waters?" he said, looking at her skeptically. "The whole area is crawling with pirates!"

It startled a giggle out of her, easy and unrestrained, and she grinned over at him rather than hide her laughter behind her hand.

Dulce kept bringing her stick, and they all took turns tossing it into the dark yard for her, smiling at the dog's enthusiasm. At one point Dulce switched to her other favourite game, which was to refuse to release the stick and hope that somebody was willing to chase her for it — a game usually only Miss Abby was willing to play.

It worked even now, despite the late hour and the significant progress into the bottle of wine. Or perhaps, Billy supposed, because of it. Miss Abby got up and made 'monster arms' and theatrical growls while approaching Dulce, and the dog ran off with her stick in the direction of the gardens, tail wagging in delight at this game.

"I'm going to get you!" Miss Abby called to Dulce, then gathered her skirts and took off running after the dog.

"Abby, dearest," Mrs. Barlow called, laughter in her voice, "don't go far!"

They watched in silence for several moments as her form disappeared into the moonlit darkness of the gardens, listening to her giggles and the dog's excited barking. Then the sounds grew quiet, and Billy could feel the edge of worry creeping up on both of them.

"I'll go," he offered, setting aside his cup to follow in the direction Miss Abby had gone.

He called to them, woman and dog both, but while he could hear them ahead, neither acknowledged him.

"Oh, who's a silly dog?" he heard Miss Abby say from up the way, just able to discern her outline as she ran down the path between the vegetables. "I'm going to get you, you silly pup— _oof_."

Quite suddenly she was gone from his view, and he quickened his steps to catch up with her. "Miss Abby?" he called, reaching her in time to see her push to a seated position on the path. "Are you alright? What happened?"

She looked up at him, seeming almost surprised to find him there. "There's a..." she gestured vaguely, "in the path just there." Billy turned to follow the line of her arm, trying to see what she was talking about. "It took my shoe," she added, sounding distantly offended.

Billy realised what he was seeing in the path just behind him, and crossed back to inspect it further. "Rodent hole, looks like," he said, freeing her shoe and returning it to her. He crouched down by her side. "Which could only be a problem for someone with _ridiculously_ tiny feet, let's be honest here."

Miss Abby paused in the act of figuring out how to put her shoe back on to poke an accusatory finger into his bicep. "Ah! _Proportional_ feet, I thought we'd, we'd agreed."

He rocked a little, more from the surprise of her touch than from any force she might have generated.

"Not mutually exclusive," he said, shaking his head. "Your feet, as it turns out, can be both proportional _and_ small enough to catch in a rodent hole. How's the ankle, by the way?" he asked before she could argue the point. "Can you walk? Or I could carry you," he said without thinking about it, only to realise— Those were some of the first words he'd ever said to her, almost a month ago now.

It could not be more different, then and now, and for a long moment he worried that he'd reminded her of that fateful day, worried that he'd broken this spell of happiness, and on her birthday no less. But then he glimpsed her expression as she gazed off into the gardens, looking distracted and delighted.

"Ooh, let's not explain _that_ one to Miranda," she murmured to herself in a low tone, before turning her eyes back up to his in the darkness and speaking a bit louder and more deliberately. "I don't think it's, uh, twisted. I should be able to…" she trailed off, still looking at him, and he waited with a strange sort of breathlessness, unsure what had distracted her. "To, uh," she snapped back her attention from wherever it had been with a little shake of her head, "to walk."

She accepted his help to stand up, then stood swaying with his hand cupped lightly around her elbow. "Or— walk well _enough_ ," she added. "No running back to the house, I think."

Dulce, having realised her favourite human was no longer playing the game, trotted up to them and dropped the stick at their feet. Miss Abby huffed a laugh, and Billy leaned down to pick up the stick. He held it in one hand and offered Miss Abby the other arm, like a proper gentleman. She took it, slipping one small hand into the crook of his elbow, laid the other along the outside of his upper arm.

It'd been nearly a month, but the times when they'd actually _touched_ were so few and far between, he could remember each vividly. The feeling of her hands against the skin of his arm wasn't something he was going to forget any time soon.

"I'm glad that it's you, here with us," Miss Abby said slowly and deliberately. "Even if you do…"

He waited for the rest of that thought, but either she'd lost it or finished in the privacy of her own mind. As he slowly led her back toward the house, he debated asking her, knowing she was more than a little tipsy and would likely tell him. It felt a little unfair, but if there was a downside to his presence here, something he was doing to cause her discomfort, he ought to know. Right?

"Even if I do...?" he prompted in a low voice.

"You know," she drew out the word conspiratorially, "you have really nice..." she took her far hand off his arm for a vague gesture in his direction, seemingly encompassing him from head to toe, and then returned her hand to his arm with a little pat, "...everything." She nodded to herself, apparently satisfied with this statement.

Then she smiled up at him, just to complete this surprising and flattering exchange, and his heart stuttered strangely. He'd shepherded countless drunk crewmembers in his time, but apparently he was still not prepared for loose-limbed, alarmingly-direct Miss Abby.

She seemed deep in thought for the remainder of the walk back to the house, and he wouldn't have known what to say if somebody had put a pistol to his head.

Mrs. Barlow got to her feet when they arrived in the circle of lamplight. "Oh, she's fine?"

Billy nodded.

"I am only," Miss Abby began, letting go of his arm to turn to him and raise a lecturing finger, "a _little_ unst— unsteady. Which has _nothing_ to do with my feet. Which are perfectly— _perfectly_ , pro-por-tio-nal."

"I'll get us something to snack on," Mrs. Barlow chuckled, heading inside.

"I agreed with that, didn't I?" Billy grinned at Miss Abby, reaching for her hand to assist her up the steps of the porch. "Proportional _and_ tiny."

"Oh. I supp— suppose you did," she said, sinking down into her chair, but not letting go of his hand. She held it between her two much smaller hands, fingers tracing the tendons on the back, and then his fingers. It felt light and shivery and Billy could not bring himself to pull away, even knowing Mrs. Barlow to be just inside.

"Good hands," Miss Abby murmured, mostly to herself. "They would— I think that… yes."

She suddenly seemed to remember he was standing right there, and she squeaked and abruptly released his hand. Even in the low light of the lamp he could see her immediate blush.

Several things over the past week connected themselves in Billy's mind quite abruptly — the Captain and Mrs. Barlow's notable, and presumably audible, reunion. His ill-considered morning wash at the well, and the conversation later that day he'd been so purposely excluded from. Miss Abby's strange behaviour the rest of the day and the day after, the way she hadn't been able to look at him without blushing. And the way she had just admitted she found him pleasing to look at.

 _Oh_.

Men felt lust, had desires, and sex could feel good for women if you made an effort. But Billy hadn't ever really considered that women might have desires of their own, might take an active role, might be eager not for a man's sake but for their own. Until he'd seen the way the Captain and Mrs. Barlow had looked at each other, the mutual hunger in their gazes and actions, he'd never… well, and why would he have? It was a private thing, and his interactions on this level had been with whores, whose job it was to make a man feel desired; they couldn't be relied upon to be truthful about their own interests.

It was strange to feel so surprised by this, that a gently bred young woman might have lustful thoughts and curiousity. He tried to dismiss the realisation that she might have them about him in specific; it meant nothing, he was the only man she saw daily, the only man careless enough to find himself shirtless in front of her not once but a handful of times now.

He shook himself out of this trail of thought and sat down in his chair. He shouldn't be thinking of Miss Abby in this manner. Among the many reasons why it wasn't right, Mrs. Barlow was just now returning from the kitchen, and perceptive as she was, he thought she might read his thoughts right off his face. It would be best for all of them if he went on pretending to be oblivious to Miss Abby's regard.


	17. XVII

"You will be fine together here for the day, won't you?" Miranda looked at Billy, "If the Pastor visits, perhaps you'd best stay out of the way, and let Miss Abby handle him."

Abigail had to admit she would have preferred to go with Miranda for a visit to Nassau, but apparently there were a couple of new pirate ships in the bay, and they'd decided that the risk was too great when there was no real reason for Abigail to come along apart from a wish for diversion.

"Well, I _am_ the farmhand," Billy nodded, backing Marcus between the cart shafts with gentle hands. "Don't know why I'd care to get involved with visitors. I'll be in back there," he jerked his chin in the direction of the back edge of the gardens, "digging over that winter plot."

"Very well," Miranda said brightly. "I should be back well before dinner. Is there anything you'd like from market?"

When she drove away down the drive a few minutes later, Abigail glanced at Billy, very aware of the way they would be alone on the farm for most of the day. It wasn't that she didn't trust him, not at all, just the strangeness of it, a whole day where anything might happen. She wasn't sure if she felt more giddy or more nervous.

Perhaps Billy sensed her mood, or perhaps he was just doing as he'd intended, because he only said "I'm going to get started on that plot, Miss, while it's not so hot yet."

"Right," she breathed, unsure if this was relief or disappointment. "I'm going to make mince pie."

They exchanged another glance, and then each went to their respective tasks.

 

* * *

 

Billy had thrown himself into the digging work, determined to get a good way into the task before he needed to take a break. It would be good to be able to show Mrs. Barlow that he really had worked.

His sense of time was still as keen as ever, but he was in a rhythm when it was the time they usually took lunch, and he kept going. He wasn't sure what it would be like, having lunch and siesta together with only Miss Abby. It was an opportunity to spend time with her in a way they hadn't before, but he hadn't missed that wide-eyed look she'd thrown him. A look that put him in mind of her first days on the _Revenge_ , trying to convince herself she was safe, but still uncertain of her situation.

He wouldn't dream of touching her— wouldn't even allow himself to dream of it, really. And he thought she did trust him in that, so that look had stung a little. On the other hand, he imagined that she'd been cautioned her entire life against spending time with men without a chaperone, and he'd recently learned that she'd gained a certain amount of information about what might happen between a man and a woman alone. He couldn't really blame her for being a little skittish.

He'd barely finished that thought before he saw Dulce come trotting up the path, followed shortly by Miss Abby herself. She was carrying an earthen jug of fresh cool well water and two cups, and she found herself a seat in the shade of one of the fruit trees, wordlessly waiting until he put down his spade and joined her on the bench.

It was hard not to be aware of how sweaty and filthy he was, especially sitting next to her in her neat skirt and linen blouse. He tried not to think about washing by the well, because that thought obviously went nowhere good for either of them.

"Will you come to have lunch?" she asked after he'd drained his third cup of water. "It's very hot to be working."

"Yes, of course. I'll just… uh, clean up, and join you for lunch," he nodded.

"Right. I'll be— inside," she said, getting up and gathering up the jug and cups. "I'll see you, when..."

"Right."

He filled Mrs. Barlow's fancy washing pitcher and went into his quarters to wash, just to be sure.

 

Lunch at the big table together felt a little stilted and awkward, and Billy wondered if he was the only one who thought that it felt like they were playing house, like a life together they wouldn't ever be having. When he didn't school his thoughts, he kept drifting to it, this quiet little place he'd come back to, the sweetness of her company waiting for him, eager reunions—

"It's strange to think that most of the time, Mir—Mrs. Barlow is here all on her own," Miss Abby broke the silence finally. "It must be so quiet and boring. At least from now on she will have Dulce to keep her company."

"Yes, I suppose," Billy said, the fantasy shattering. It might be a lovely image from his side, a partner, a place to come back to, but it wasn't so idyllic from— well, it wouldn't be Miss Abby, would it. He tried to dump the entire idea. "I'm glad we got Dulce."

"Me too," Miss Abby smiled, looking at the dog, who had flopped down by the hearth. Feeling their attention, her ears perked up, and they both chuckled, and the strange tension broke.  

Things went a little easier then, a little less stilted. After lunch he helped her clear away the dishes, and then they installed themselves on the porch as usual, a jug of cool water within reach, each deep in a book.

Billy found himself chuckling at the play he was reading, one of Shakespeare's funny ones. When he burst out into a laugh, Miss Abby lowered her own book to look at him with amused curiosity.

"You can not entice me so and then not share," she declared, turning fully toward him, and he indulged her.

"It is better when played by an actor, I'm sure, but I will do my best for you. This is Benedick at a masked ball, after Beatrice complained about him to his face, pretending she did not know it was he."

Miss Abby nodded eagerly, and his excitement dimmed a little.

"You have read it?"

"I have, but it is some time ago, and I would enjoy hearing which part made you laugh," she said, smiling warmly at him, and he looked back down at the book, a little flustered by that look.

He cleared his throat and began, affecting an aggrieved tone such as he imagined the character would have.

"'I would to God some scholar would conjure her; for certainly, while she is here, a man may live as quiet in hell as in a sanctuary—'"

He heard a sound, and looked up to find Miss Abby had clapped her hand over her mouth, her eyes sparkling with laughter.

"'—and people sin upon purpose, because they would go thither; so, indeed, all disquiet, horror and perturbation follows her."

Miss Abby was giggling quietly, and Billy read on, further than he'd intended, enjoying the way he caused her pleasure.

"Don Pedro says: 'Look, here she comes.' And then Benedick: 'Will your grace command me any service to the world's end? I will go on the slightest errand now to the Antipodes that you can devise to send me on; I will fetch you a tooth-picker now from the furthest inch of Asia, bring you the length of Prester John's foot, fetch you a hair off the great Cham's beard, do you any embassage to the Pigmies—'"

By now he'd long lost the aggrieved tone and was grinning widely, both at the text and at Miss Abby's mirth. She'd kicked off her shoes and pulled up her legs, tucked them under her skirts.

"Is that not just before she refuses Don Pedro by saying she would require two husbands?"

"Don Pedro says: 'Will you have me, lady?'" Billy quoted, "And Beatrice answers: 'No, my lord, unless I might have another for working-days: your grace is too costly to wear every day.'"

Miss Abby chuckled, and then, some thought apparently occurring to her, looked thoughtful.

"I am sure it is not a thing a young lady should be considering, but that does not sound so strange for a situation such as this, does it?" She gestured at the house and the gardens. "If they were sailors… One would be less lonely, for certain."

"If all knew of the other, and it would not involve deceit or jealousy," Billy shrugged. He was amused when she looked shocked that he did not protest the idea. Perhaps she'd expected any man to vehemently object to such an arrangement. "I have heard of stranger understandings among pirates."

She actually looked intrigued, and Billy realised that any story he might have told her about such things would be the crude kind of thing that would be vastly inappropriate to share with a young lady, and even more so when they were alone. He glanced away to the sky, noting the position of the sun.

"I ought to get back to my work," he said, shaking off this strange moment of intimacy, trying to remember the reality of the day. It would not do for Mrs. Barlow to return to find his work half done and the both of them still here, talking.

 

Billy made good progress on the plot, and by the end of the afternoon he had the ground ready for planting, more than he'd expected to get done in a day. After putting his tools away in the shed, he made his way around to the front of the house. He spotted Miss Abby sitting in one of the chairs on the porch, staring off into space, and as he approached he took note of her miserable expression, the evidence of recent tears. She'd seemed in good spirits during their siesta, he couldn't imagine what had caused the sudden shift.

"Miss Abby?" he called to her as he neared. "Are you alright?"

She blinked up at him like she hadn't expected to see him there. "Miranda returned from town," she said, her tone flat, rather than answer. "There was a letter."

He sighed and sank into the chair beside her. It'd been two weeks since Flint had sent Miss Abby's second letter to her father, Billy knew he should have been preparing himself for the inevitable arrival of the reply. The days had gotten away from him, the rhythm of their life on the homestead lulling him into a false sense of permanency, when none of this had ever been meant to last.

"Your father's agreed to meet with Flint," he said, mood dropping along with hers.

But she shook her head. "No. Not even that. He said— My father demands I be returned to him, within the fortnight. Or else he will ask the Admiralty to send the Navy over from Harbour Island to, to _fetch_ me," she said, her voice taking a bitter little twist, "and kill every pirate, and everyone who 'trades with, aid, or abets' pirates, that they find along the way."

"Christ," Billy muttered. That would justify sacking Nassau entirely.

They were silent a long moment, each staring off, lost in their own thoughts.

"Harbour Island is not far, is it?" she asked.

"No, fifty miles, give or take. About a day's sail, on the prevailing winds. We wouldn't have much warning."

"And is that— Harbour Island is where you were a _guest_ of the Navy, is it not?"

He nodded, knowing what she was getting at, that she wasn't trying to pry at what had happened to him. "I saw the garrison there, or what it was a few months ago, at any rate. I think we have to take your father's threat seriously."

"He writes that if I'm returned with all possible haste, the ship and crew that brings me will be allowed to leave."

"I guess that's… something?" Billy said, not finding it much of an upside.

"So long as Captain Flint does not come ashore," she added.

Billy snorted and leaned back. "Of course. Flint won't like that, but I don't see that we have much option."

"If it gets you all back home safe," she said softly, her gaze gone distant again, "I believe we must do as my father commands."

He looked over at her, studied the line of her profile, the unhappy set to her mouth. It wasn't what Flint had hoped for, by any stretch of the imagination, but Billy and Miss Abby would be going back to their respective places, back to the way their worlds were supposed to work. They should both be glad of it, but that seemed to be the last emotion either of them could find in the face of this news. He wished there was something he could do or say that would ease this pain, but even acknowledging that this hurt more than it ought to seemed like it would only make it that much worse.

Mrs. Barlow came out onto the porch and paused, casting a glance between he and Miss Abby. "I take it you've heard?" she asked him, voice gentle.

"Yeah," he said, then cleared his throat. "The Captain won't be happy."

"No, I don't imagine he will be. Peter's ultimatum doesn't leave us with much choice." Her gaze fixed on Miss Abby for a long moment before cutting over to meet Billy's. "Unless you can think of an alternative?" she asked him, her voice even but her expression betraying a tiny bit of the hope behind her words.

Billy shook his head. "No, ma'am."

She sighed. "Nor I. Peter's ultimatum also does not leave us with much time before his deadline, I think perhaps to dissuade us from sending another letter."

He hadn't even thought about that, but she was right — with the _Revenge_ still at sea, they couldn't make preparations to leave immediately. The winds could shift and turn a four day journey into into a ten day journey, or Flint and the crew could be gone for another week, or both.

"I think it would be wise to alert the Captain as soon as they are back in the bay," Mrs. Barlow went on. "I've written him a note, would you take it to Eleanor Guthrie at the tavern and ask that she sees he gets it?" she asked, holding a folded and sealed note out to him.

He agreed, nodding, and stood to accept the note from her, then turned away toward the stables.

It seemed to catch Miss Abby's attention in a way their conversation had not, and she blinked up at him, gaze more focused than it had been. "You will come back, won't you?" she asked him in a rush, then looked almost startled at her own words.

"Of course," he assured her before she could become too awkward. "Straightaway," he added with a glance at Mrs. Barlow. Tonight would not be the night for drinking with Vane, no matter how good of an idea drowning his sorrows felt. There'd be plenty of time for that. After.

 

Billy saddled Marcus and rode to town, heading directly to the tavern's stableyard to leave the horse with the stablehands there, then went inside. He caught Babatunde's eye as he neared the bar.

"Is she in?" Billy asked, nodding toward the closed doors of Miss Guthrie's office. "I have a message for her."

"She is meeting with Captain Vane," he answered.

"Christ, because of course she is." That could take a while, he figured, and he'd really rather not have to explain to Vane why he would need to turn around and head right back up the hill. "See that she gets this, will you?" he asked, holding the note out to Babatunde. "I need her to get it to Flint as soon as he's in port."

From a few feet away, the door to Miss Guthrie's office creaked open a fraction.

"Bones, thought that was you," Vane said, blocking any further view into the room behind him. "You need Eleanor?" he asked, tone somewhere between friendly and suspicious. His gaze zeroed in on the note still in Billy's hand. "Come to leave a message for Flint?" he asked with a smirk. "Time to ask for his niece's hand already?"

Billy bit down on the anger that flared through him, aware that even now, his first priority had to be to keep Miss Abby safe and her identity a secret. Abruptly the door opened wider to reveal Eleanor Guthrie, looking around Vane's shoulder, her face concerned.

"Is that for me?" she asked, nodding to the note, but didn't wait for an answer. "Come in," she said to Billy. "Charles, out."

Billy locked gazes with Vane as he crossed towards the door Miss Guthrie was holding open for him. "Her family in Barbados sent for her," he said to him, uneasy with leaving that question unanswered.

Vane twitched one eyebrow upwards but otherwise didn't react. "Sorry to hear it," he said, and clapped him on the shoulder as Billy went past into Miss Guthrie's office.

She closed the door behind Billy, only to open it a moment later, apparently to make sure Vane wasn't lurking about eavesdropping. Satisfied, she closed the door again and came to sit in her high-backed chair behind the desk, and gestured him into the one across from it.

"Is that what the letter said? Did he agree to meet?" she asked without preamble.

"No, refused Flint again. He wants her home post-haste, or else he's threatened to set the garrison at Harbour Island on us."

"Shit," she said, more or less summing up his feelings.

"On the bright side, he's promised us safe passage in and out of his harbour — so long as Flint doesn't try to go ashore."

"Fuck."

"Mrs. Barlow asked that Flint be given this, as soon as he's in port," Billy said, leaning across the desk to give her the sealed note. "The letter gave us a fortnight to get her home, so preparations to leave will need to be made immediately."

Miss Guthrie nodded, looking grim. "I'll get the _Revenge_ 's usual provisions set aside at the warehouse, for faster departure. And tell Miranda that if she would like anything set aside for her and Abby, she need only send a list."

"That's the end of Flint's plan, isn't it?" Billy asked after a moment.

"Not necessarily... " she said watching him thoughtfully. "The letter said _Flint_ couldn't go ashore, did it say anything about anyone else? Would Miss Abby's father not welcome the chance to meet his old friend, Miranda? And we couldn't possibly send her unaccompanied, one unarmed man to escort the ladies ashore and escort Miranda safely back to the ship hardly seems an unreasonable request."

"You want us to go ashore with Miss Abby, and, what, talk to her father?"

"Perhaps together the three of you can convince him of what the letters could not."

"Worth a shot, I guess," Billy agreed.

"You should probably be packed and ready to travel," Miss Guthrie sighed. "If Flint is another few days, a fortnight is cutting it close."

"We will," Billy nodded. "And we need to see about finding somebody to take care of the animals." He suddenly realised that with Mrs. Barlow coming along, there'd be nobody on the homestead.

"Do you need somebody to come live there for the duration?"

"There's a horse, goats, chickens, a dog..." Billy said.

"One of my stablehands just got married, he and his wife could move in. It'll be longer than I had hoped to miss him, but— if Miranda agrees to it, that might be the easiest solution."

"And draw the least amount of attention," Billy nodded. "I'll suggest it."

"I'll see Flint gets this straight away," Miss Guthrie said, note in hand, "and send someone up to the homestead to let you know when he's arrived, if he doesn't insist on going himself."

 

He returned to find the homestead in a downcast mood, both ladies with reddened eyes but determined to act as if nothing was wrong. Mrs. Barlow served him a very late dinner while he conveyed what Miss Guthrie had suggested. It was already dark, but he felt the need to move, to do something, to do anything but spend all evening looking at Miss Abby's reddened eyes without being able to bring her any comfort.  

He walked around the gardens with a lantern, Dulce trailing in his wake, and made a mental list of the most important and unfinished projects on the homestead. Then he found something that he could do by lantern light — chopping wood — and threw himself into the work for the rest of the night.

 

* * *

 

The next three days seemed to last endlessly, and Abigail might have been pleased about that if her departure wasn't hanging over her head. It was hard to eat every meal thinking it might be the last she'd have in this place, to wonder at every loaf of bread she made if it would be the last she'd ever make. Miranda alternated between a quiet melancholy and forced cheer. Billy seemed distant, subdued, focused on trying to finish as many of his on-going projects around the homestead as he could, in whatever time they had left before the _Revenge_ returned.

She thought of that last siesta before her father's letter arrived, their easy companionship, laughing over Shakespeare together. Abigail wanted to live in that moment, to never have to leave the careful bubble of happiness she had built here in the last weeks. She wasn't sure she would leave at all, given the choice — but of course, she didn't have that choice; she certainly couldn't risk the Navy coming to Nassau.

In his letters her father hadn't even addressed her as a person with agency, much less sought or valued any of Abigail's opinions. That stung more than she wanted to admit to herself, but it was easier than dwelling on any of the other emotions churning through her as her life on New Providence came to a lingering end.

She would miss this in a way that was difficult to bear. She would miss Miranda, miss the easy friendship they had grown between them, miss her guidance and tutelage. With her father unwilling to meet with Captain Flint, Abigail supposed she wouldn't even be able to write to Miranda, once she was settled in Charles Town, without doing further damage to her reputation and prospects. She had said goodbye to far too many mother figures in her life, the idea of being cut off from Miranda after these weeks of being so close made her heart ache.

She would miss their life here, the freedom it afforded her, the chance to be useful and to contribute to the well-being of those around her. Once she was married and could run her own household, she might well feel similarly, she knew — but it would not be in this place where she had grown so confident, or with these people who had shown her such support and kindness.

And she would miss Billy, though it was difficult to admit even that much to herself. It had caught her by surprise, this thing that had grown out of friendship and fondness and what she was beginning to understand was attraction. Abigail had forced herself not to acknowledge it for so many weeks now, and it was only in the face of her impending departure that she found she could no longer avoid it. Now it felt like it was being torn from her, this tiny sprout that she longed to cultivate into something more.

The sort of man that would make an appropriate husband for Abigail had been drilled into her since childhood, but the attributes emphasised had always been social standing and rank, a man who _mattered_ in the world, with the wealth associated with such a status. A connection to a family that could strengthen or broaden the influence of her father. Well-spoken, intelligent and possessing of excellent manners had also been part of it; a man who could wield influence.

 _Someone you can live with in domestic peace_ had been said by her circle of surrogate mothers, but nothing that spoke more directly to the virtues of the individual. Nothing about kindness, or somebody who could make her smile, or could make her feel a rush to her stomach with the slightest of touches. It seemed incomprehensible to her, now, to even consider marriage without those things. If she had felt like this towards any of the men in London who had sought to court her, she doubted she would have boarded the _Good Fortune_ in the first place.

But she didn't have that choice, now, to remain where she was and pursue a future with a man who might make her truly happy. There had never really been any chance at a future for her and Billy, Abigail had always known that going to her father in Charles Town was inevitable, that she would marry someone from her own sphere, that a life with a pirate couldn't possibly—

She knew all that, had never forgotten it, but that didn't make saying goodbye to him any easier, or hurt any less. That he might feel the same sort of regard toward her only made it worse.

 

Abigail wrote letters of goodbye to the people she wouldn't be able to see again — the _Revenge_ would presumably be picking them up from the cove, just as she'd arrived on the island.

She wondered if her letters would feel overly formal to Eleanor, to Anne Bonny, to Mistress Max. If this was perhaps a bit of Polite Society they would find utterly strange. It was the only avenue available to her, though, to thank them for their care and to wish them farewell, and crafting the letters gave her a measure of distraction from the way Billy was working on his repair projects like a man possessed, and from the way Mrs. Barlow was trying to hide her downcast mood behind good cheer.

She wasn't ready to leave, but she thought she might never be ready, and the world wasn't going to wait for her.


	18. XVIII

In hindsight, Abigail had perhaps been unrealistic about the voyage to Charles Town. In trying to make her departure easier to face, she'd pictured something like her first time on the _Revenge_ , only with being comfortable straight from the start, without any of the terror. Pictured herself wearing her pirate clothes, helming the ship, helping with simple shipboard tasks, playing games with the crew. Pictured herself sitting on deck in the shade, talking to Billy about books, about sailing, about anything, really.

It had been a sort of fantasy merging of the best parts of being aboard and the best parts of being on the homestead, and of course little of that was possible in reality. For one thing, the relative privacy she'd enjoyed on the homestead, the chance to talk to Billy without an audience of crew members, had disappeared. He was also immediately occupied with his watches and a number of responsibilities Mr. Silver had neglected.

And though she was disappointed, she could not resent Miranda for the decree that she'd be wearing much the same as she'd worn on the homestead — skirts and blouses and jackets and light stays, nothing terribly restricting, but not even close to the freeing feeling of her pirate trousers and shirts. Miranda was probably right that getting used to what she'd be expected to wear in her father's household would be hard enough already.  

She took care to stay in the shade, very aware that any sign of sunburn would be counted against Miranda by her father.

If she was on deck during sail work and his tasks allowed, Mr. De Groot would narrate commands for her, pointing out what happened when each line was hauled or eased, and how this affected the sails. When she professed herself deeply confused by the process of tacking, by how the ship and sails and rudder interacted with the wind, the next day Joji quietly presented her with a small model of the ship.

It was a simple, practical thing, not decorative but intended as learning tool: a shaped block of wood the length of her hand, with sticks for masts and yards attached to them. The masts could turn, imitating what happened when the crew braced the yards. She thanked him, unexpectedly touched that he would make something for her, something to help her learn, when she would be off the ship and likely never to sail again within days.

Billy, having observed this from next to the helm, called over two of the newer members of his watch and gestured them over. The four of them sat down on deck in the shade of the lateen sail, and Billy talked them through the sail manoeuvre, demonstrating with the model.

Abigail missed the relative privacy she'd shared with Billy before and might have preferred a private lesson, but there was something satisfying about being treated alike the crew, at least in terms of learning.

The wind was a light but steady breeze on their starboard quarter, and the swell was mild, making for a relatively comfortable voyage. Miranda was clearly also enjoying being at sea, for apparently the first time in a decade, and there were moments where the two of them forgot the impending separation and simply enjoyed the experience.

They took their meals with the Captain, and Abigail found herself missing the mealtimes with Billy a surprising amount. Once during the evening meal, while he was on watch, he arranged to time his own meal with theirs. Another time he found an excuse to come down and ask the Captain about something, briefly sitting down with them. Abigail smiled at him, and he smiled back slightly, looking a little self-conscious with the Captain right there. Miranda hid her amused look behind her cup.

After dinner Abigail would go up to the quarterdeck, giving the Captain and Miranda some time alone in the salon before the Captain's watch, and taking the opportunity to helm the ship if Billy offered.

The five day voyage went far quicker than she'd been prepared for, and all too soon land was sighted and they were making preparations to turn inland toward Charles Town harbour. Abigail and Miranda went to change into their clothing for going ashore. As Miranda helped Abigail into stays and then a very conservative dress, she couldn't help but sigh. She wasn't sure if she was ready for this to end.

 

* * *

 

As they sailed into Charles Town, Billy knew De Groot was going to call the All Hands soon. It'd be another half-glass, maybe, but certainly before six-bells. They'd heave-to, ready the boat to go ashore, and Billy's absence would be very much noticed. This was his last chance to— he knew he wouldn't have any more chances to talk to Miss Abby, after the All Hands. So he went to find her in the salon, ducking in through the doorway when she opened the door to him.

Miss Abby was already dressed for going ashore, in the formal dress that had been made for her in Nassau. Her hair was done up more elaborately than he'd seen it until now, somehow folded and tucked into artful loops on the back of her head. She looked very elegant and sophisticated.

Now he was there standing opposite her, he didn't know what to say. Mrs. Barlow was there too, though after greeting him, she announced she would be getting ready behind the dressing curtain in the corner. Deliberately giving them a semblance of privacy, and Billy was grateful.

Yet now he was here, able to speak more or less freely, he wasn't sure what to say.

"You will be escorting us ashore, will you not?" Miss Abby asked, sounding a little tense, maybe even anxious.

"I will," he promised. Flint couldn't come, per Lord Ashe's threat, but the Captain had agreed with Miss Guthrie's idea to send Mrs. Barlow ashore with Miss Abby, escorted by one unarmed man, and it had taken little thought to decide it would be Billy, looking his most respectable, to escort the ladies.

"I just… thought we might not have the opportunity to speak, once everything is, well, happening," he struggled his way through that sentence. Maybe this was stupid, maybe she did not feel the need to say a private goodbye to him at all.

"I'm glad," she said softly, stepping in a little closer. And it helped, somehow, that she was dressed in her finery, her hair done all fancy, her face powdered. It made her look like somebody different from the young woman he'd gotten to know, and any temptation he might have had to say something very stupid, or to reach out to her in ways he very definitely should not be touching her, faded at the sight of her like this.

This was not Miss Abby, who asked him about what he was reading and pretended she was a monster as she chased the dog, who made bread with her sleeves rolled up and a smear of flour of on her cheek. This was Miss Abigail Ashe, ready to return to the life she was destined for, to drawing rooms and servants and fancy dinners and high society. Any notion he might have had that she was not indifferent to him took a backseat to the knowledge that she deserved that life, deserved all those things, and deserved to welcome them back into her life with all the possible joy of a captive returning to her former existence. She did not deserve to be weighed down by the feelings of a pirate who had, despite his better judgement, formed an attachment to her.

She reached out to take his hands, and he blinked down at her, startled out of his own morose thoughts.

"I wish that we…" she said softly, then shook her head, as if to herself. "I hope that my, my future husband — that he is as good a man as you are."

It felt like a punch to the gut, and he was breathless, staring down at her, feeling all his certainties begin to slide as if they were barrels on deck during a particularly deep roll.

"Better," he croaked finally, gently squeezing her soft, pale hands. "I hope he is a—a much better man."

She smiled sadly, her brown eyes large and perhaps overly shiny in the low light of the salon, and he shook himself out of this moment, this strange suspended regret. Whatever else he might have wanted to say stuck in his throat, and perhaps that was for the best. Nothing more could be said that would in any way help either of them live the lives they were meant to have.

He raised her right hand to his lips and pressed a light kiss to her knuckles, a mere brush of his lips, but he felt her shock, the way her breathing stalled for a moment, the way her other hand twitched, and _oh_ , he shouldn't have done that, he should have just bowed, but— well, he couldn't take it back now.

"Fair winds to you, Miss Ashe," he managed, voice low and somehow still too loud for this moment.

"And to you, Mr. Manderly," she whispered. "Be safe."

 

Billy was barely back on deck before the All Hands was called, and it was a relief to have something to focus on, to make sure the boat was in place by the capping rail, to coil lines and instruct the men and otherwise ensure that the ship was ready to brace-to and sail away quickly, if need be.

They were taking the bigger of the launches, with eight crew to row it ashore and wait for them — for Billy and Mrs. Barlow — to return. The davits for the bigger launch had a more convenient point along the railing, so it wouldn't be as arduous for the ladies to get into the boat.

He tried not to remember that first time he'd helped Miss Abby into a boat, how her relief and triumph had made him forget both himself and the watching eyes of the crew. There could be no question of that anymore, at all. They'd said their goodbyes, and must now act like acquaintances, no more. It was damaging enough to her reputation to be delivered into Charles Town by a pirate ship; she certainly could not afford to be seen to be friendly with any of them.

Flint reiterated to the crew that not a gunport could be seen to so much as twitch, and then the rowing crew went into the boat. Billy followed, looking more like the farmhand he'd been over the past month than a pirate, though he'd dug out his best coat to wear over top.

Bosedeh took up position on the railing, both to help the ladies along with entering the boat and, as the crew's strongest swimmer, ready to jump in after them should anything happen.

Then Captain Flint came out on deck together with the ladies, both so formal of dress and expression that Billy barely recognised them. But Miss Abby caught his gaze, just for a moment, and her face might have been carefully blank, but her eyes were not. He had to look away, the emotion there threatening to swamp him.

The Captain helped Miss Abby onto the railing, an overturned bucket again serving as an extra step, and then she steadied herself on Bosedeh's arm while cautiously lowering herself into the boat, other hand transferring from the Captain's to Billy's. She tensely sat down on the bench.

Flint stood very close to Mrs. Barlow for a moment, and Billy caught his whispered, "Keep your temper, my sweet," before he kissed her forehead. Then he helped her onto the railing too.

When she was seated, Flint looked at Billy for a long, silent moment. No words needed to be said — _keep them safe_ was as much Billy's goal now as it had been for the past weeks. Billy nodded, and Flint's eyes moved to Miss Abby's.

"Remember, Miss Ashe," he said very seriously. " _Half measures_."

She gave him a small, tremulous smile, and Flint ordered for the men to begin lowering the boat.

"Shore boat on its way to us," De Groot called from the quarterdeck, as the boat settled in the water. "There's a Navy type looking at us with a glass!"

"I suppose you better sit where he can see you, then," Mrs. Barlow said softly to Miss Abby.

 

* * *

 

Abigail swallowed back the tears that were threatening to spill as the rowers began to put their backs into the work. This last morning aboard seemed to have gone impossibly fast. She'd intended to say goodbye to some of the men, but between getting ready and the men hard at work, there hadn't been time.

She glanced back to the ship now, seeing Bosedeh still on the railing. He saw her look and raised a hand in greeting, and she stilled her own hand, remembering that they were being watched, that she could not be seen to be friendly with any of these men. Instead she gave him a nod in thanks for his care, hoping he would understand. He flashed a grin, and turned away, jumping down from the railing back onto deck.

Not much further they were met by a longboat, eight rowers strong, and a Navy Lieutenant who identified himself as Harrison, sent by her father.

After all this time it was hard to believe that it was really happening, that she was truly arriving in Charles Town as she had been meant to months ago. She could scarcely imagine what she might have felt then, after a voyage on the _Good Fortune_ , with Róisín at her side, to be rowed into the harbor.

What she felt now was a curious mix of anticipation and regret, of knowing the life she was destined for was about to begin after all, and trying to be unequivocally glad that it would. Hopefully it would get easier in time.

Abigail did her best to ignore the other boat, with its fancy-coated Lieutenant standing in the prow, scrutinising them through his looking glass. By her side Miranda sat ramrod straight, as dignified as might be expected of a Lady, and Abigail tried to follow her example, tried to smooth her expression into one of dignity and restraint.

The Navy boat had pulled ahead as they approached the jetty, and Lieutenant Harrison stood ready to offer his arm to help her out of the boat. Abigail had expected Billy to assist her, and felt a glimmer of disappointment she tried to squash. That was in the past now. This was her new life, offered the help of Navy officers, and she could hardly refuse.

She took the extended arm and climbed out of the boat.

"Lieutenant Harrison at your service, Ma'am," he said very formally. "Very glad to have you with us at last. Your father is awaiting your arrival eagerly."

He made as to lead her away, but Abigail resisted, waiting for Billy to assist Miranda out of the boat. Lt. Harrison's face darkened as Billy unfolded to his full height, and he led her away more insistently now, leaving Miranda to take Billy's arm and follow.

During the walk through town, the Lieutenant seemed eager to tell her of its merits, point out to her the slave auction block and the cages as if they were points in its favour. He was overly solicitous toward her and her father in a way that rang vaguely familiar to Abigail. In London there had been second sons and Navy Captains eager to make her acquaintance, to impress her, hoping to make a match and gain the valuable connection to her father.

That this was a Lieutenant, barely older than her and likely living in barracks, who imagined that he stood a chance at her hand simply because he was willing to accept her — it sank down into her chest like a sip of too-hot tea. She and Miranda had discussed the word _ruined_ , they _had_ , but she had not felt it in the behaviour of others, had so far not encountered the implication in the people around her. Until now, apparently.

"And here is how we deal with pirates in our parts," Harrison drew her attention to the gallows, the gruesome sight that awaited her. Abigail made an involuntary noise of disgust, both at the sight of it and at the sheer gauche of presenting it to her in front of her companions. She could almost feel the outrage radiating from Miranda, and from the corner of her eye she could see Billy's face had gone blank, his eyes cold.

The Lieutenant thought to endear himself to her in this manner. Much as she was aware that she could not show herself to be sympathising with pirates, this was too far beyond the pale.

"Please sir," she said, with more restraint than she had previously known herself to be capable of, "some civility would not go amiss. These people," she glanced back to Billy and Miranda, not letting her eyes dwell, "rescued me from abject misery. My father has guaranteed their safety and comfort while they are in Charles Town."

This thankfully silenced the Lieutenant for most of the rest of the journey, though she could find no polite way to escape his arm.

The house was very big, and she wasn't sure how she felt as they walked up the lane, past the neatly manicured gardens and the slaves who were put to work there. This was what her father had written about, promised her as her due, and she had looked forward to seeing it. In this moment though, it felt like some other world, one where she did not belong at all, and she couldn't picture herself living here.

The Lieutenant left her for a moment as he climbed the steps between the Grecian pillars to ring the doorbell. Abigail looked back to Billy and Miranda, seeking reassurance, though she wasn't sure for what. She was about to see her father again at last, she had nothing to fear here.

Miranda reached out, and they clasped their hands together for a moment, the older woman giving her a reassuring squeeze.

 _You will be well, my darling girl, you will, you will_ , Miranda had said in the salon, saying proper goodbyes before they went ashore, both knowing they might not have the chance later. They had embraced, and Miranda's voice had sounded choked, and they both knew that unless things with her father played out very differently from what they expected, there would be no chance of any further contact between them. Sending letters to New Providence would make her a pirate sympathiser for sure, if she wasn't already considered as one, and Miranda had expressly forbid her from taking any chances of endangering her future opportunities.

Abigail squeezed back, sucking in a deep breath to push back her tears, and only glanced at Billy in passing, too afraid of what she'd see on his face.

A servant let them in, and then she was walking into a large room with a desk at the far side, and a man rose to his feet, and—

"Oh my Lord, _Abigail_ ," her father sighed, and she fell into his arms, even after nearly ten years still as familiar as they had been as a child. "I'm so very relieved that you're here."

Tears did spill over then, the weight of everything bearing down on her; the horrors of the _Nemo_ , the adjustment and uncertainty of Captain Flint's ship, the suspended waiting on New Providence.

After a few moments her father pulled back and cupped her face.

"Mrs. Wilson will see to it that you can bathe and dress properly. I have some things to handle in the meantime, but I will see you at dinner, all right?"

Abigail remembered that those things were Miranda and Billy, and wanted to look to them, to swallow her tears and make sure her father respected them, but in that moment a door opened and Mrs. Wilson, short and grey haired and maternal, bustled in, and Abigail gasped.

Mrs. Wilson had been the head housekeeper in her parental home, as a child, and she had very fond memories of the lady. When Abigail's mother had died, Mrs. Wilson had been the main person to support young Abigail. She had known that the elderly housekeeper had travelled to the Carolinas with her father, but had forgotten along the way to expect her here. Seeing the familiar, comforting face now, in this place she'd entered with such uncertainty, drove all other thoughts from her mind.

"My darling girl," Mrs. Wilson said, taking her hands, "How you're grown. You must be exhausted from your travels, come," she said, in such a warm, familiar-maternal tone that Abigail was out the room and down the hallway before she quite realised it. The door had already closed behind her, Billy and Miranda forever out of reach.

Mrs. Wilson assumed the tears she could not stop shedding all through her bath, and afterward, were from the hardships she'd been through. Abigail did not correct her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So ends our alternate season two, thank you for joining us! The story will be continuing in 'Doldrums', which we expect to start posting in October. Until then, please enjoy the next part in this series, 'At Anchor', as a little preview of the happy endings to come, to ease the ache of this ending. Hitting 'Next Work' will bring you that joy you're looking for. :D
> 
> Thank you all so much for your wonderful comments, cheerleading, and support over these last months! It's been so much fun to get to know a few of you so well, and we really hope you'll stick with us through the longer arc we have in store for these characters. Please do let us know what you think of this first part, and come say hi if you're on Tumblr -- we're sheliesshattered and primarybufferpanel over there. We've been talking about the behind-the-scenes of Stuns'ls this week, and would love to hear any questions you have!
> 
> This tiny rowboat of a ship continues to be simply delightful, and it's been so exciting to see the AO3 and Tumblr Ashebones tags grow. To all our lovely crewmates: keep up the good work, and we'll see you soon. <3
> 
> -Sang and PBP


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